The Reason
by Kyra4
Summary: R for language, and because all my stories are R! A little treat in the Halloween spirit! 7th year DM & HG must work together on a Halloween fundraiser in the name of interHouse unity. Merlin, how is THAT going to work out? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter the First: Sodding Malfoy!

(A/N: Written for an Autumn themed fic exchange game, this story was a gift that had to meet the following criteria set by its recipient:

3 - 5 Things you want your gift to include:

a) some inter-House unity  
b) setting in 7th year post war  
c) a get-together in the great hall that is NOT a Yule-ball formal event type,  
d) Neville doing a favor to either Draco or Hermione...  
e) and lots of glitter, because I like glitter. A light, fun and romantic fic would be nice, but I'm not requiring any moods or anything. 

What you don't want your gift to include: 

Nothing totally out of character, Draco and Hermione can like each other from the start but they shouldn't be already together, ExtraordinarilyPretty!Hermione

0

All fics requests were assigned at random; I DID NOT get to choose this request- the challenge comes in fulfilling criteria that are potentially far different from what one would normally include in a story of one's own. I had a good time with it; so here's a little something in the Halloween spirit. It is a 6 chapter fic; I will post one chapter each Friday til it is complete. Hope you like!)

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"Granger. Granger? Oh, for the love of- _Earth to Granger!_"

"Malfoy! _What?!_" Hermione yelped, jarred back into reality. And it had been such a nice escape while it had lasted, too. She'd been pretending to write notes about the subject of the meeting she was currently suffering through, whereas in reality she'd been writing her History of Magic essay that was due the next week... and she'd really been on a roll too. It almost felt as though she'd actually _been_ there- a firsthand witness to the pixie infestation that had closed Hogwarts down briefly in the year 1643. And now... sodding Malfoy. She was right back where she _didn't_ want to be. She wouldn't have come to this ridiculous meeting at all, had not Harry and Ron gotten on either side of her and virtually frog-marched her here. Planning social events was _so _not her forte.

But no, her _so-called_ best friends (though she thought this with no real animosity in her heart- she loved those boys so much it scared her sometimes) wouldn't leave her to study in peace. _The whole seventh-year class has to be there, Hermione,_ they had insisted. _You can't exactly skive this off- you're Head Girl! Besides, isn't this what you wanted? You've worked so hard for inter-House unity!_ Though even as their voices had dripped with sincerity, she would have had to be blind to miss the teasing light in their eyes, the way their mouths had twitched at the edges- barely concealing grins at catching her so effectively in her own trap. She _had _worked hard on bringing about a degree of inter-House unity, so how could she possibly refuse to attend this meeting? It was the first seventh-year class meeting to include every member of every House since before Voldemort's initial rise to power, decades ago.

_But of all the stupid things to meet about,_ she griped mentally, rolling up her essay and shoving it into her bag, which lay at her feet. _I'm not any use here, I'm no good at this stuff!_

Straightening in her chair once more, she jutted out her lower lip and huffed, blowing a stray curl out of her face, then raised her eyes, reluctantly, to survey her classmates. There were forty or so seventh-year students in all, seated around a large, highly polished table in the Room of Requirement, which had morphed, for this occasion, into something resembling a Muggle executive board room, with the table as its centerpiece, just enough comfy, plush swivel chairs to seat everyone around it (Crabbe and Goyle hadn't stopped spinning in their chairs since the moment they'd sat down- and the meeting had been dragging on forty minutes already) a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard situated directly behind the head of the table, on which the various ideas they were discussing appeared in flowing, magical script even as they spoke, and four self-replenishing refreshment carts stationed around the room, overflowing with Butterbeer and sweets. Ron, along with his girlfriend Millicent Bulstrode (the two of them, as it turned out, got on smashingly, largely because they shared an intense passion for food) had situated himself halfway between two of the carts; at five minute intervals he would lean far back in his chair under the pretense of stretching, extend a hand toward each cart, mutter "_accio_" under cover of a fake yawn- and two goodies would fly into his outstretched hands- one from each direction. Rocking his chair upright once more, he would slip one to Millie, as he had taken to calling her, quickly scarf the other, then crack his knuckles, straighten his scarlet-and-gold tie, and lean forward on the table, hands folded on the gleaming wood in front of him, an utterly guileless expression of rapt attention and interest in his cobalt blue eyes.

It was pretty funny, really.

Or would have been- if Hermione had been in the mood to feel amused.

She was not, however- especially when her eyes finally locked onto those of the person who had disturbed her in the first place.

Malfoy. Was. Smirking at her.

Sodding Malfoy.

No amount of inter-House unity could ever induce her to consider _that_ git as anything more than just barely tolerable... no matter that he had, amazingly enough, fought for the Light in the battle that had rocked the wizarding world the previous year, bringing nearly the entirety of Slytherin House over to Dumbledore's side with him. He had never revealed, however, to anyone, as far as Hermione knew, the reason for his sudden and drastic shift in loyalties... and so she still didn't quite trust him. No, scratch "didn't quite".

She didn't trust him any further than she could throw him.

And right at the moment she wished she was thirteen again so that she could simply _slap _that infuriating smirk off his face without pause for thought of consequence... but sadly, such was not the case. She was an adult now, and had to act like one. What sort of example would it set, and what would it do the tenuous beginnings of Gryffindor/Slytherin cooperation if the Head Girl should slap the Head Boy at this historically significant meeting?

She took a deep breath, calming herself, at least outwardly, though inwardly she continued to fume over his deliberate- and highly successful- attempt to catch her off guard and get a rise out of her in front of all her classmates. In an attempt to salvage what was left of her dignity, she struck back, asking in a falsely sweet voice, "what's the matter, Malfoy? You seemed so keen to run this whole show by yourself. Why do you suddenly need _my _input? Did you bite off more than you could chew?"

Draco's gray eyes flashed at the challenge in her voice. "Not at all, Granger," he drawled. "It's just that you've been awfully quiet this whole time. I thought that perhaps, being Head Girl and all, you might have something valuable to contribute to our discussion before we vote."

_VOTE?_ Merlin, what had she missed?

In an effort to buy herself some time, she said haughtily, "of course I have something to add, Malfoy, but first, why don't you do a quick recap. We ought to be sure that everyone here-" and she looked pointedly at Crabbe and Goyle, who were still spinning merrily in their swivel chairs, using their astoundingly large feet to push off the table, and each other, every time they threatened to slow down- "is on the same parchment, and understands exactly what it is that we are voting _on_."

Draco's eyes narrowed to slits at this, and she could almost swear she saw his lips form the word "touché", as though muttering it under his breath- but he was at the head of the long table, and she at the foot, so she could easily have been mistaken. She must have been mistaken. What mattered was that she had taken the focus off herself and thrown it firmly back onto Draco and his intellectually challenged cronies.

She raised her chin smugly. She had managed to save face.

"Very well," Draco said, resuming his cool demeanor almost at once, "let's recap, shall we? It has already been decided that this year, upon leaving the school, our class will give Hogwarts one commemorative gift, instead of four smaller House gifts, as has been the custom for the past several years. It has furthermore been decided that the gift we give the school will be a small monument to be erected on the grounds, in the memory of Professor Dumbledore."

Hermione shot a quick, worried glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight down at the table, his face drawn, lips pressed tightly together as if in pain. It was an expression he had worn often since the battle at the end of sixth year. He had seen Dumbledore die- more than that, the headmaster had sacrificed himself to save Harry, who had then, with renewed fury, gone on to do exactly what Dumbledore had been confident he would do; slay Voldemort and win the war decisively for the side of Light.

Harry was a different person, though, after watching his mentor die and, in turn, taking the life of his nemesis. He was quiet, withdrawn; he smiled seldom and laughed less. It was part of the reason that Hermione had capitulated so easily and good-naturedly when Harry and Ron had cornered her for this godforsaken meeting. Seeing that old mischievous glint in Harry's eyes as he had teased her was like striking gold- a small vein, but nonetheless gold- in a mine that was presumed to have long since run dry.

But enough brooding about Harry for the time being. Draco was speaking again, and she had damn well better pay attention this time- if she missed what he was saying, she would not be able to effectively save face again.

"In terms of financing this gift, it has been decided that we will hold two major fundraisers this year; one in the autumn and one in the spring." (_Good Lord,_ Hermione thought, _all this was discussed and decided on, and I had no clue?_) "The autumn fundraiser will be held on Halloween night; we've already been granted permission by McGonagall to hold it in the Great Hall, in lieu of the traditional feast. It now being October the first, this should give us plenty of time to prepare. We've agreed upon charging members of the student body ten knuts apiece admission, and members of the staff a sickle each. So... now that we have the date and the admission price set, we need to decide on exactly what this fundraiser will consist of. Onto the ideas that are to be voted upon. Board wipe clean."

At these words, all the writing that had been scrawled across the white board behind him vanished, leaving it clean and ready to record his next words.

"Number one," Draco said, "a pumpkin carving contest suggested by Neville Longbottom." He waited for this to appear on the whiteboard before continuing. "Number two, an evening hay ride around the lake, suggested by Hannah Abbot. Number three," and he literally grimaced as he continued, his distaste evident in both his expression and his voice, "a cute couples costume contest, suggested by Lavender Brown-"

"That's alliteration," Lavender squealed proudly from where she was draped over her boyfriend du jour, Justin Finch Fletchley.

"And number four," Draco resumed, looking as though he'd just been force-fed copious quantities of lemon juice, "a pumpkin pie eating contest, suggested jointly by Ron Weasley and Millicent Bulstrode. So tell us, Granger, what would you like to add to this... unique... assortment of-" (Hermione could almost swear he was about to say "rubbish", or something to that effect, but with a supreme act of self-discipline, he nearly choked out the word-) "ideas?"

At which point Hermione blurted out the very first thing that popped into her head, which had probably been put there by all the heavy thinking she had so recently been doing about magical creatures running rampant throughout the school; "er... haunted house?"

Draco cocked an eyebrow at her. "Excuse me, Granger? Could you elaborate on that a bit?"

Hermione had to fight down a whole new wave of irritation; she very sincerely doubted that Draco had asked Ron and Millicent to elaborate on their pie-eating idea, or plied Lavender for details about her "cute couples costume contest". He was just doing this to torture her, as per usual.

Lucky her.

She cleared her throat. "A haunted house, Malfoy," she said flatly. "You said that we have permission to use the Great Hall. So we decorate it like a haunted house, and we dress up and station ourselves around as... you know..." (she waved a hand vaguely)- "vampires and mummies and skeletons and such, and then we jump out and frighten the people who are walking through. Haunted House."

Draco said nothing for a long time, just looked at her intently- but she could tell by the sudden gleam in his eye that the idea of jumping out of a dark corner and scaring younger students- perhaps even the odd faculty member- and, moreover, raising money by doing so- held a certain appeal for him... rather more appeal, it was safe to say, than any of the suggestions that had preceded it. Far be it from him to praise any idea that had come from her, however. When he spoke, it was merely to state, for the benefit of the whiteboard, which quickly recorded his words, "number five, a 'Haunted House' to be held in the Great Hall, suggested by Hermione Granger." He waited until this was added to the list, then said, "well, shall we vote?"

He both looked and sounded completely neutral, which was as it should be for the person in charge of the proceedings, but Hermione noticed that when Crabbe and Goyle stopped spinning long enough to look to him for a signal as to which way to cast their votes, he briefly opened, then closed, his left hand at them; a flash of five fingers- _vote for number five._

00000

And so it was that Hermione's Haunted House idea was adopted as the seventh-years' official autumn fundraiser. It would be an exaggeration to say that it won by a landslide, but there _was_ a pretty considerable margin, and for the most part, everyone left the meeting more or less contented with the shape their fundraising idea had taken. Lavender had pouted at first, but by the time she was out the door of the Room of Requirement, she and Parvati were walking with their arms slung about one another's waists and their heads bent so close together that blonde hair mingled with black, discussing in low, intense tones just what they would need to get started on the "vampire princess" costumes they planned on wearing.

As for Hermione, she meandered slowly down the hallway in the direction of the library, having parted ways with Harry, Ron and Millicent, who were all off for a mid-afternoon raid on the kitchens, to be followed by an impromptu picnic by the lake. How Ron could stand to eat another bite after the way he'd been snacking throughout the meeting was beyond her. How he managed to remain as lean and lanky as he was, was further beyond her still. How Millicent, who was, obviously, considerably shorter than her boyfriend, could very nearly keep up with him and not weigh as mush as a house was even more mystifying... but the Slytherin girl managed somehow. She was not slim, but nor was she obese. Pleasantly plump was a good way to describe her, and as she had progressed through the awkward years of adolescence, her features, which had been hard and off-putting when she was younger, had softened somewhat. Millicent was pretty enough now, in her way, Hermione reflected. As for Harry, he would just be along for the companionship.

Hermione would have gone as well, for the same reason as Harry, but the first Defense Against the Dark Arts quiz was coming up on Monday morning, and she needed to get in some quiet study time. It being Saturday afternoon, she could be reasonably sure of finding the library deserted, which would make for a most conducive study environment. She'd meet "her boys" again at suppertime.

As she walked, bookbag slung expertly over her shoulder, she reached up with both hands and, never breaking stride, twisted her masses of long, unruly dark curls into a knot at the nape of her neck. It was just as she was shoving her wand through the newly formed bun, chopstick-style, to hold it in place, that Draco Malfoy came even with her, followed as usual by dumb and dumber. She stopped abruptly, such was her surprise at seeing him there. She hadn't even realized he'd been behind her. He had been the last to leave the Room of Requirement, and must have been walking fairly quickly to catch her up like this. He paused for just a moment, capturing her startled, dark eyes with his pale ones, as Crabbe and Goyle fidgeted a step or two behind him. Then,

"That wasn't a bad idea, Granger," he drawled. "Not bad at all." And then, just as Hermione began to grasp, with astonishment, the fact that _Draco Malfoy just paid me a compliment?!?_ he went and ruined it entirely by continuing, his lips curving up into that trademark smirk of his, "especially for someone who wasn't paying the least bit of attention, and pulled it straight out of her arse."

And with that, he was gone, around a bend in the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle trotting dutifully after him, leaving her spluttering indignantly in his wake. The very least he could have done would have been to give her a moment to collect herself and come up with a really stinging retort, damn it all!

When she reached the library, she slammed the door open and then shut again with such force that Madam Pince started at her desk, shot Hermione a poisonous glare, and told her to _please leave and disturb the peace somewhere else_.

Hermione, now absolutely fuming, slammed right out again, if anything, more loudly than ever. First she'd been interrupted in the writing of her essay, just when she'd been on a roll, and now she'd lost her best chance for a quiet, studious afternoon. All because of Draco Malfoy.

Stupid, _SODDING MALFOY!_


	2. Chapter the Second: Yell if you Care

"So, what are you dressing up as, Granger?"

Hermione looked up, startled. She was sitting at a small table near the back of the library study area; it was only big enough to accommodate two people, and Draco had just slipped soundlessly into the chair opposite her. She glanced around, then back at him. There were plenty of empty tables nearby; it was a Sunday morning in mid-October; two weeks had passed since the meeting at which the seventh-year students had decided to hold a haunted house fundraiser on Halloween- and yet, here sat Malfoy, pulling parchment, quills, and his Potions text out of his bag, then raising his eyes back to hers, one silver-white eyebrow cocked expectantly.

So unsettled was she by his presence that she opened her mouth, closed it again, fishlike, then finally opened it once more, managing to get out, "excuse me?"

Draco rolled his eyes at her obtuseness. "The _Haunted House_, Granger. It was your idea in the first place, for Merlin's sake. Have you forgotten? What are you dressing up as for the Haunted House?"

"Oh. Er... I hadn't really thought about it yet. Well actually no, I did a little. I thought I could help with the set-up and then maybe just... take tickets or... or I had this idea that I could run a little butterbeer booth on the side- might prove quite lucrative- what do you think?"

"I think you don't want to dress up. Why not?"

"What do you care, Malfoy?"

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "Just making conversation, Granger. If you'd rather not discuss your weird psychological hang-ups about wearing a costume, that's fine with me-"

"I don't have any weird, psychological hang-ups, Malfoy, you git!" she exploded, her voice an angry hiss. God, he always knew just how to get under her skin, make her lose her cool. How did he _do_ that? "I just don't know what to be, all right? And everyone else knows already. At first I thought maybe a vampire, but there are about five female vampires already. I don't know, I suppose..." she sighed. "I suppose I'll just be a ghost."

Draco looked skeptical. "Ghosts aren't scary, though."

It took Hermione a moment to remember that Draco had grown up exclusively in the wizarding world- no contact with Muggles whatsoever. She was struck again, as she often was with Ron, by just how different her experiences and biases were from those of pureblooded wizards. As a child in the Muggle world, she had grown up thrilling to scary stories of ghosties and goblins and... well, and witches, she thought, a sudden, small smile curving her lips. But for Draco, ghosts were par for the course- just a fact of life, nothing to be scared of- friendly, for the most part, as evidenced by the majority of the Hogwarts ghosts. Still-

"The Bloody Baron's pretty scary," she defended.

But Draco shook his head. "Nah... not once you get to know him."

"Not once you..." Hermione echoed, dumbfounded. She shook her head right back at him. "Really, Malfoy, do tell."

Draco shrugged again. "Nothing to tell, Granger. He's a nice bloke."

"All right, this is officially the most surreal conversation I've ever had. And... and why are you even talking to me, Malfoy? Talking isn't something we _do!_"

"Call it my good deed for the day."

Of all the _arrogance!_

"How _dare_ you?! What am I, your newest charity cause? Now I should feel _privileged_ that you would even deign to share my table and-"

"Relax, Granger, you blow everything out of proportion. All I meant was, I'm acting in the name of inter-House cooperation. I'm Head Boy, you're Head Girl, people look to us to set an example, you know. Besides which, we'll be working together all year long. I thought we should get to know one another better."

"Oh," she said, now slightly embarrassed by her outburst. She still didn't trust him, though, damnit. So what if he had fought beside Harry himself last year? So what if the two boys had shook hands after the battle and were on reasonably friendly terms now? Harry and Draco had had words in the past, plenty of them, but Harry hadn't gone years being called a "mudblood" by this prat. That stung! Besides which, there was still the fact that he'd never come clean with his motive for defecting to the Light. Until she knew the real reason for his so-called heroism, she felt no obligation whatsoever to bury the proverbial hatchet.

And yet... he _was_ making an effort. He had approached her, and she knew that had probably been difficult for him to do, far more difficult than he was letting on; for if there had, in fact, been some sort of fundamental shift deep within his personality, it had certainly not affected his pride, which he would have had to swallow in order to strike up a conversation with her like this, knowing, as he must, that he most probably faced rejection.

The least she could so, she supposed, albeit with some reluctance, was meet him halfway.

She sat back in her chair, meeting his steady, cool gaze. "So, what was it you wanted to talk about, then, Malfoy?"

"We already were talking about it. Costumes for the Haunted House. Tell me more about this scary ghost idea. I'm intrigued."

Hermione snorted. "Don't be. It's a pretty lame idea, really. What are _you_ dressing as?"

"Not until you tell me, Granger. I asked you first."

"God, Malfoy, you are such a _child!_ Fine. I'm going to charm my hair white, lighten my skin tone several shades with this Muggle thing called "makeup", wrap a sheet around myself and, I don't know, probably rattle some chains or something. There, are you satisfied? Do I pass muster!?"

Draco grinned at her. It was disconcerting. In all the years they had been schoolmates, she had never seen Draco Malfoy grin before. She'd seen him smirk often enough, and sneer, and snicker- just about every unpleasant facial expression that started with the letter 's', she'd seen him do, in abundance- but grin, never. The most disturbing thing about it, though, was- and she could hardly believe she was even thinking this, but it hit her suddenly and it hit her strong, and there was no denying it- the most disturbing thing was how _attractive_ he looked while doing it. It made the whole shape of his face much more appealing- no longer did it look quite as thin or pointed- and, she couldn't help but think appraisingly- she _was_ the daughter of dentists, after all- he had a killer smile.

But before she could even ask him just what was so amusing, he had to go and ruin it all- _again_- just as he'd ruined the only compliment he'd ever given her, in the corridor two weeks ago- by dropping her a suggestive little wink and saying, "whoa, Granger, kinky- _chains_, no less! I never thought you had it in you."

Hermione blushed crimson. This time the urge to slap him was so strong that she actually started to raise her hand, before bringing herself, with the utmost difficulty, back under control. "You... disgusting..." she spluttered, abruptly rising and cramming her belongings, pell-mell, back into her bag. "Ugh! I don't know why I even _tried_ to talk to you!"

As she turned, furious, and made for the library door, Draco's voice floated after her; "good idea about the white hair, too, Granger... it's dead sexy!"

00000

"Harry? Ron? What's the matter?"

It was T minus a week to Halloween, and counting. Hermione had just plopped herself down at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, directly across from Harry and Ron, who were, she then realized, both hunched over a single issue of the morning's "Daily Prophet", their faces wearing identical expressions of shocked outrage.

"What's going on?" she asked, in mounting alarm. In answer to her question, both boys looked abruptly up at her; Ron's face was livid, Harry's pale as death. Before she had a chance to say anything more, Harry quite suddenly shot to his feet and pelted from the Great Hall, through the entrance hall, and out of the castle.

"What on earth-" Hermione half-rose, but before she could make a move to follow Harry, Ron's arm shot across the table, catching her by the wrist.

"Wait," he said. "I think you should read this first." He shoved the paper across to her.

"Ron-"

"_Just read it._"

She sank back down, smoothing the wrinkled paper as she did so- then gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth as she read the headline,

MASSIVE AZKABAN PRISON-BREAK

Seven Known Supporters of You-Know-Who Escape Guards

Critics Decry Replacement of Dementors with Aurors Following the War

"Oh, no," she whispered, as her eyes rapidly skimmed the rest of the article. She looked up at Ron. "What did he say?"

"It never ends," Ron replied wearily. "He said, 'it never ends.'"

"Ron, we have to find him!"

"I know." Ron got to his feet. "You go in the direction of Hagrid's place. I'll head toward Hogsmeade."

The two of them parted ways just outside the castle doors, taking opposite directions. Hermione privately thought it a futile exercise. Harry had probably, she thought, _accio'd_ his broomstick from outdoors just as he had during the Triwizard Tournament task years ago, and was likely miles away by now, flying fast and hard. That's what Harry did when he was really upset; he flew. He'd come back in his own good time. Still, she had to make an effort, at least... even if it was truly more for her own sake than his. She'd go mad if she had to sit still inside and try to concentrate on schoolwork. It was a Friday morning and, for the first time in her illustrious Hogwarts career, Hermione Granger, Head Girl and bookworm extraordinaire, made a deliberate decision to miss class when not seriously indisposed.

00000

She never did find Harry that morning.

She found Draco instead.

He was in Hagrid's pumpkin patch, sitting on the ground with his back up against a particularly large specimen- a good five feet in diameter, it hid him from her view until, coming around it, calling for Harry, she very nearly tripped over him. His legs were drawn up, arms criss-crossed on his knees and his head bowed forward, resting on them; silver-white hair hiding his face from view.

"Malfoy! What's the matter?"

When he raised his face, she was shocked by the sight of his slate-gray eyes. They looked... haunted.

"Granger?" he said slowly. "What are you doing down here? Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Shouldn't _you?_" she retorted, but he seemed not to hear her. His eyes widened, as if he'd just had an important realization, and he was on his feet in a flash, gripping her both-handed by the shoulders with a sudden, nearly painful intensity.

"Did you come down here alone?" he asked, and then, when she failed to answer right away, so taken aback was she by this out-of-character behavior that she couldn't seem to do more than simply stare at him, open-mouthed, he actually _shook_ her; a single, rough shake. "_Did_ you?"

"Yes! I'm looking for Harry, he's really upset, have you... Malfoy, what is _wrong_ with you?!"

For Draco had let go her shoulders only to grab her by the wrist, nearly hard enough to bruise, and started back up toward the castle, pulling her along with him.

"Malfoy!" She tried to yank free, but to no avail. His grip was like iron. "What do you think you're _doing?_"

He neither slowed down, nor looked at her. When he spoke, his voice sounded too tight, as if he were biting off his words through clenched teeth. "You shouldn't be this far from the castle on your own, it isn't safe."

"Isn't safe..." she repeated incredulously. "What are you _on_ about? I've been coming down here since I was eleven years old! I'm a big girl, Malfoy, I can take care of myself- and anyway, since when have you ever cared?!"

This was just too bizarre. Her day seemed to be spinning entirely out of control, and it was only nine-thirty in the morning. First there had been the stunning news about the Death Eater prison-break, then Harry had run off, and now Malfoy was treating her as if she were two ruddy years old! She stopped walking abruptly, digging her heels into the ground and pulling back against him so suddenly that she caught him off-guard and managed to wrench her arm free.

"What are you _on_ about?" she demanded again, eyes narrowed.

Draco stopped walking. He was still a step or two ahead of her, still with his back to her. He did not turn around right away. Every line of his body, Hermione could see, was tense- almost to the breaking point, like a bow strung too tight. As she watched, his hands clenched, unclenched, clenched again. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned to face her, raising one hand and raking it through his white-blond hair as he did so. When he spoke, his voice matched his posture; tightly controlled, falsely calm- a thin veneer over the roiling emotions beneath... but _what_ emotions? This was the most unguarded she had ever seen Draco, yet still she couldn't put her finger on exactly what he was feeling, and trying so hard to conceal from her. There was anger there, certainly, but it was a lot more complex than that. Did she detect a trace of fear in those remarkable, pale eyes of his? And if so, fear of _what?_

"Did you read the morning paper, Granger?" he asked, still in that tight, clipped voice.

"Of course I did. Why do you think I'm looking for Harry? He saw that article and-"

"_Did you see the names of the escapees?!_" Draco half-shouted.

"No, I just skimmed... oh. _Oh_. Your father?"

Draco's lip curled back in a derisive sneer. "Brilliant deduction, Granger," he nearly spat, "no wonder you're head of the class."

Hermione would have been wounded by this, but couldn't help thinking, _it's still a cover. He's hiding what's really going on in his mind. Why?_ Although she supposed that answer was self-evident; she'd certainly never gone out of her way to give him reason to trust her, nor made any particular secret of the fact that she did not trust him. Why _should_ he confide in her?

So instead of lashing out defensively, as was her impulse- as, she thought, he perhaps _intended_ her to do- she simply said, "I'm sorry. That must be really hard for you."

Draco recoiled almost as if she'd slapped him. "I don't want your pity Granger," he snarled- then paused, battling once more for self control. _Clench_, went the hands. _Unclench. Clench._

When he spoke again, it was in a tone close to normal- though without any trace of his usual, nonchalant drawl. "What I want is for you to promise me that you won't leave the grounds- preferably not even the castle- alone, until... until this situation is remedied. Promise, Granger."

"But I don't understand..." her voice was little more than a whisper; her head was spinning. Draco was acting so strangely, this whole encounter seemed surreal to her. It occurred to her that an onlooker might think this boy had feelings for her... judging by his agitation, his actions and his words- he seemed almost- _concerned_ about her? But- but that couldn't be, she thought, her mind reeling. Of all the ridiculous, impossible-

She swallowed hard, attempting to gather her scattered thoughts, then blurted out the question that was foremost on her mind- well, besides why he was acting as though he was worried about her; she couldn't possibly bring herself to verbalize that one. "You act as if you think your father's coming here," she said slowly, "and as if, moreover, you think he's an especial threat to me. What would make you think that, Malfoy?"

Draco gave an explosive sigh; a sound of severely tried patience. "For someone who's meant to be that clever, you really are thick, aren't you, Granger? You want to know why I act as if I think my father's coming here? Because I think my father's coming here! You want to know why I act as if I think he's a threat to you? Well, how about because I _bloody well think he's a threat to you!_"

"But why?"

"He's coming for me, Granger. I'd wager anything I own on that. But my father is also an opportunist at heart, and if another target presents itself, he'll... he'll wreak all the misery and havoc he possibly can. And I believe you'd be an appealing target to him because of your ties with Potter. I don't have to tell you how passionately he hates Potter."

Hermione's eyes widened, panic setting in. "Harry! Malfoy, I'm almost sure he's left school grounds. I _have_ to find him-" she attempted to turn again, but he stopped her once more, grabbing her arm and holding her in place.

"_You're not listening!_" And this time he wasn't just half-shouting; this was the real deal. A second later, though, he released her, then ran _both_ hands through his silvery hair, clearly struggling for composure. "I'm sorry," he said, "maybe you just don't understand. Let me spell it out for you, because I suppose it's possible for a person like you to fight evil their entire life and never really understand it. My father more than hates Potter, he loathes him. And that means that it's not Potter himself who is in imminent danger, but rather the people he cares about. If my father were to go after Potter and kill him-" (Hermione blanched and paled at these words)- "that would cause him to suffer for perhaps thirty seconds. If, however, my father were to kill _you_- or Weasley- that would cause Potter to suffer for years, decades. The rest of his life. And _that_, Granger, is how true evil thinks. Trust me on this one. _You _are the one who is in danger here. So _will_ you come back to the castle with me, and promise to lay low until the escapees are found?"

"You can't tell me that if Harry runs right into your father, he will pass up an opportunity to harm him, simply because, for whatever sick reason, he would prefer to harm me. Harry's out there somewhere right now, Malfoy, and if he should happen upon your father, or vice-versa..." she trailed off.

Draco looked at her for a long, intent moment. Then, "no, I can't tell you that, Granger," he conceded. "I did say already that my father is an opportunist. If Potter should stumble upon him, or the other way around- whenever opportunity presents itself, he takes it. But I can tell you this: he isn't looking for Potter. He's looking for me, and he's looking for you. I can almost guarantee it. Besides which, I highly doubt that Potter is just going to go bumbling right into him. Surely he can be trusted to display some modicum of caution, right? You said he read the article, so he knows the danger-"

"You didn't see how upset he was," Hermione interrupted fretfully. "He wasn't thinking clearly. And when Harry's not thinking clearly, trouble has a way of sneaking up on him... or maybe it's Harry that has a way of finding trouble... but anyhow, all this conversation has served to do is strengthen my resolve that someone _has _to go after him, so if you will _please excuse me_-"

"I'll go."

Hermione, in the midst of turning away, was brought up short by surprise. "What?" she asked incredulously.

"I said, I'll go-"

"But you also said you think your father's actively looking for you-"

His jaw tightened. "I can handle myself. Besides which, you know as well as I do, Granger, that if Potter _did_ leave school grounds, he did so by broomstick. So the logical way to pursue him is on a broomstick. And you don't fly. I do. So you cast the tracking spell, and I'll go- if you promise to go back inside once I've left. Please."

She stared at him for a long moment, at war with herself. Her distrust of him was still present, clanging in her head like a bell, and yet- and yet.... She'd never seen Draco act this way before. Gone was any trace of the smirking, self-satisfied boy she loathed. He truly seemed distraught. In the end, it was his use of the word 'please' more than anything else that convinced her to accede. She had never heard him use that word before, ever. Based on that alone- the fact that he had swallowed his pride enough to throw that powerful little word in there- she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Well, and then there was the fact that what he was proposing did, in fact, make perfect sense. Of course Harry would most likely be flying; she had had that same thought herself earlier. And if there was anyone at Hogwarts who could fly nearly as well as Harry- not _as_ well, of course, perish the thought, but close- it was his fellow Seeker and fiercest Quidditch competitor, Draco Malfoy.

She didn't answer him, per se. She simply pulled out her wand, turned her back on him, screwed up her face in concentration, and began the incantation for the tracking charm, a complex spell the seventh-years had recently been studying. Behind her, she heard a rustle of fabric as Draco retrieved his own wand, then his voice murmured "_accio broomstick_." A second later there was a sound of rushing air as something pelted toward them around the side of the castle, and when she finished her incantation and turned, Draco's broomstick was hovering in the air beside him, right at mounting-level, thrumming with impatient energy and the will to be gone.

She touched the tip of her wand to the tip of the broom and said simply, "Harry," and the charm was complete. The broom swung in a slow circle, like the needle of a compass, and came to rest at a right angle to the direction in which it had been facing before. The fact that the spell even worked was a firm confirmation that Harry had left school grounds; tracking spells could not locate anyone or anything on Hogwarts land, since the school was unplottable.

"That's it," she said. "It'll know where to go now. Malfoy- er- thank you."

Draco threw a leg over the broomstick. "Don't thank me," he said brusquely. "Just get the hell indoors and stay there. A deal's a deal, Granger. Right?"

He gave her no opportunity to answer. In the very next second he kicked off from the ground, shot into the air like a rocket, hovered for just a split second, about level with the top of the nearest turret, then bent flat over the broomstick, pressing himself down along its sleek length, and was gone in a blur of gleaming waxed wood, dark robes and wind-whipped silver white hair.

Hermione stared after him for a long moment, but there was no longer anything to see but an empty horizon. She sighed, considered following Ron toward Hogsmeade, then decided against it. _A deal's a deal_, Malfoy had said. It appeared that he was upholding his end of the bargain, so she felt honor bound to do the same. She began trudging back toward the castle's front entrance. Feeling anxious now, over not only Harry but Ron as well and even- yes, even Malfoy, she decided that attempting to join her morning class now would be a lost cause, and so headed up to the library instead, to wait for the nerve-wracking situation she suddenly found herself in to be resolved.


	3. Chapter the Third: Glitter Angst

She couldn't concentrate on anything. Every time she attempted to read from a textbook, she found herself going over and over the same paragraph time and again, absorbing nothing of the words on the page. Writing was equally futile. No homework written while she was in this state of mind would be worthy of turning in. How could she write coherently while anxiety, strong as acid, burned a hole in the pit of her stomach? It was no use.

Thus passed her morning, and when Madam Pince glanced up at the library clock and then proceeded to ring the little silver bell on her desk, denoting the fact that lunchtime had arrived, Hermione rose and packed her things away, heading down to the Great Hall more out of the hope of finding Harry and Draco there than because she was the least bit hungry.

Harry and Draco were not there.

Ron, however, was. He had returned from his search equally empty-handed... though, unlike Hermione, who was listlessly pushing the food around on her plate in between bouts of wringing her hands and glancing repeatedly at the door, Ron's appetite seemed unaffected by the absence of his best friend from the table. Oh, he was worried, all right- Hermione could see it in his eyes- but that didn't stop him from chowing right down. Then again, Ron hadn't encountered Mister Doom-and-Gloom _My-father's-out-to-kill-us-all_ Malfoy that morning, either. That would put a damper on _anyone's_ appetite, she reflected.

It was about forty minutes into the hour-long lunch period that the assembled students in the Great Hall were silenced in their mealtime chatter by a resounding thud in the entrance hall; _the school's front doors_, Hermione realized, sounding as though they'd been thrown violently open from outside. She was already on her feet when the doors from the entrance hall into the Great Hall flew open as well- were _kicked_ open, to be precise, and was running, full tilt, in the next second, as she recognized Harry and Draco standing on the threshold.

Her heart leapt when she saw that Harry appeared all right- then, just as abruptly, plummeted as it became apparent that Draco was not.

_But Harry's fine! Thank God, Harry's fine. Why the hell should I care about Malfoy?!?_

She did, though. She could feel her concern mounting as she approached and saw that Harry had Draco's arm slung over his shoulder, and was supporting the Slytherin, holding him upright, with both their broomsticks clasped in his other hand- the reason he had resorted, she supposed, to kicking the door. Both boys, moreover, looked equally disgruntled by their close physical proximity to one another; it would have been almost humorous, had the circumstances been different. Having spent the entire morning worried to distraction, however, Hermione was in no mood to find humor in this situation.

"Harry!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "Where have you _been_, I've been out of my mind!" She buried her face in his chest for just a fraction of a moment, then pulled away, her attention now on Draco, worry clouding her features. "And what happened-"

Draco seemed to take this as his cue to wrench himself away from Harry, falling back against the doorframe. "Nothing's happened," he snapped, "I'm fine," and immediately commenced sliding floorward until he was sitting propped in the doorway, glaring up at Harry who sighed and said tiredly, "Malfoy flew into a tree. He's got a bad sprain."

If Draco had been glaring before, the look he shot Harry now was absolute venom. "Only because Potter here decided to play airborne hide-and-seek in the bloody Forbidden Forest," he snarled.

Harry shrugged. "I told you I needed some time to myself, Malfoy."

"And I bloody well told you that wasn't an option today."

Hermione could see Harry beginning to get exasperated. "Well, you got your way, Malfoy! I'm here, aren't I? Your goal was to bring me back, and I'm back! So what are you on about?!?"

"My ankle!" Draco shouted, disregarding the fact that a mere moment ago he had insisted there was nothing wrong with him. "That's what I'm on about, Potter!"

"Stop!" Hermione cried. "Just stop it, both of you!" She glanced toward the staff table, but there was no help to be found there. As usual, the professors had all finished their meals within the first half-hour of the lunch period, and had gone off to prepare their classrooms and lesson plans for the afternoon. There were no adults present to render Draco aid. He clearly wouldn't be able to make it up to the hospital wing on his own without doing himself further harm, and he certainly did not appear to be receptive to offers of support from anyone else present. He looked positively baleful sitting there, now glowering around impartially at one and all of the dining students who were craning their necks, the better to stare right back at him.

Abruptly, Hermione had an idea.

"Neville!" she called, and waved her hand, beckoning the shy boy over.

He came cautiously, and, Hermione thought, with good reason, as the moment she's spoken his name Draco's attention had snapped onto him, and he was now, as he approached, the sole recipient of the Head Boy's most poisonous glare yet. Still, on he came. For all the shyness and introversion that made up his fundamental nature, Neville also possessed a quiet sort of determination; a quality that had been growing in him steadily during the latter half of his Hogwarts years. When a friend called, Neville would respond- come hell or high water, or even severely pissed off Slytherin Head Boys.

"Hermione?" Neville inquired when he was standing beside her.

"You're taking Advanced Medical Magic this term, aren't you?" she asked, regretting, for the umpteenth time, that she herself had been unable to enroll in it- so many classes available, so little time. "Can you heal a sprained ankle?"

After years of struggling in school, Neville had finally found himself a niche. Well, two niches, to be exact- Herbology, and Medicine. In the wizarding world, the two really went hand-in-hand, and Neville, it transpired, excelled at both.

"I can," he replied now, slowly, "but only with Malfoy's permission."

It was a well-known and respected law in the wizarding world that an adult witch or wizard- and Draco, now seventeen, qualified- had the absolute right, so long as she or he was conscious and thinking clearly, to choose whether to consent to, or deny, medical care.

The ball was now firmly in Draco's court.

He peered distrustfully up at Neville. It was clear that having to rely on anyone else for assistance galled him- and having to rely on Neville, of all people, whom he had used to tease unmercifully about his magical ineptitude, had to be especially humbling for him, Hermione thought.

To which half of her wanted to shout out, _Good! Serves you right, Malfoy, to be sitting on the floor in pain and have to depend on Neville Longbottom to help you out of it! _But this impulse was fleeting, because Hermione was, by nature, a compassionate person, who hated to see others in pain. And Draco was clearly in pain, though doing his damnest not to let on. She could tell, though, by the tightness in his jaw; his breath, hissing shallow through clenched teeth; the way he had one hand clamped protectively over the injured ankle. She could tell because if it were Harry who was injured, he would be reacting exactly the same way. Well, aside from the hostility that seemed to be radiating off Draco in waves. But his steadfast refusal to submit- or even _ad_mit- to the pain he was in was familiar; it was quite Harry-esque; she found it both frustrating and endearing all at once.

In the end, Draco accepted Neville's offer of help, and the situation was resolved a bare thirty seconds later. It was a simple thing, hardly worthy of all the drama that had preceded it. Draco was obliged to roll up his trouser leg; Neville went down on one knee beside him, laid the tip of his wand gently to the offending ankle, which, Hermione thought, with a sympathetic indrawn breath, was looking very puffy and painful indeed- spoke a short, yet complex, incantation, Draco's entire lower leg was briefly bathed in a pale golden light, and then it was over, Draco getting to his feet with his usual lithe grace restored, good as new.

And then he did something that even Hermione, optimistic by nature, had not expected; he extended his right hand to Neville. "Thanks, Longbottom," he said simply, as the two boys shook.

00000

Hermione followed him out of the Great Hall. After he took his broomstick back from Harry and left, she stayed just long enough to thank Neville herself, give Harry another brief, hard hug, and make him promise her not to wander any more that day. Then she was hurrying out into the entrance hall after Draco.

She caught him just as he turned off toward the Slytherin dungeons, walking more slowly than was usual for him, looking tired.

"Malfoy!"

He turned and waited, regarding her impassively as she approached.

"I just-" she faltered, suddenly wondering why on earth she had chased him down like this. "I um..." God, what had she been thinking? He was just standing there, looking bland and faintly amused, allowing her to stutter on and make an idiot of herself. And what else had she expected, really?

"I just wanted to thank you," she said finally, lamely, turning away even as she spoke. "I was so worried, you can't know what it meant to me... anyway, thanks."

She had started to walk away again when his voice brought her up short.

"Granger."

She turned back toward him, slowly, warily, not knowing what to expect. She could hardly read Malfoy at all anymore. It almost made her long for the old days when they had flat-out loathed each other; at least then she'd known very clearly where they'd stood.

Almost.

But not quite.

No, she wouldn't go back to that other Draco, the one who had used to look at her as if she'd been something sticky he had stepped in, in his crisp new loafers. Anything was preferable to that- even a Draco who was a perfect mystery to her. As this one was. He was looking hard at her, his slate-colored eyes unfathomable.

She swallowed. "Yes?"

"Remember what I said before, and watch yourself. All right?"

There it was again, that sense that an outsider observing this scene would inevitably come to the conclusion that this silver-haired boy, with his distant, thousand-yard stare, was really worried about the wellbeing of this pale, slim girl, who moved through the school in a cloud of dark, curly hair- and through life in a sort of academic haze.

Which was just bizarre, considering.

Considering who he was. Considering who _she_ was. And considering the long and unlovely history of their acquaintanceship.

But what was stranger still- and profoundly unsettling- was that she found herself, against all reason, wishing that this could have been the case... even as her deeply ingrained sense of logic and reason assured her that it could not. There had to be another explanation. Draco Malfoy could not possibly care for her.

_Could _he?

00000

It was Halloween afternoon.

Over the past week, the newspapers had been full of rumors and speculations as to the whereabouts of the Azkaban escapees- but there were no solid leads, no sightings, and certainly no captures. All seven criminals, Lucius Malfoy included, were still very much on the loose. This meant little to the younger students at the school, however, and even amongst the older ones, the outcry which had originally greeted the news had died down almost entirely. After all, an Azkaban prison-break, though disturbing, really had very little bearing on their actual lives... well, all except for Draco.

In any event, on this day in particular, the student body of Hogwarts- and most especially the seventh-year students- had a far more pressing matter on their minds; a matter that could be summed up in three words. _The Haunted House_.

The first through sixth-year students were in an agony of anticipation- the seventh-years had been advertising vigorously over the past two weeks- and as for the seventh-year students themselves... well, they had to set up.

Lunch had been served in the Great Hall, immediately after which the seventh-years had gone to work on the enormous room. It had been announced that dinner would be served in the four House common rooms, and that after dinner all students who would like to experience the Haunted House should proceed to the entrance hall, in an orderly fashion, please.

At the moment it was nearly three-thirty, and preparations were reaching a fevered pitch. There was only an hour and a half left before the seventh-years would need to report back to their own respective common rooms for a rushed half-hour dinner followed by the hour allotted them for getting dressed in their costumes- they needed to be back downstairs by six-thirty to make any final preparations and take their places for the grand opening at seven-o-clock.

Everyone was working fast and furiously, and so it was really only a matter of time before an accident had to happen. Hermione saw the whole thing- and it wasn't because she'd been stealing glances at Draco Malfoy roughly every thirty seconds all day, damnit, it _wasn't_- she just so happened to be looking that way.

It was purely coincidental.

Right.

In any event, what happened was this;

Draco was staring straight upwards, intent on changing the enchantments on the Great Hall's ceiling. Just for this night, it would not reflect the weather outdoors, but rather alternate between an eerie shifting fog with the full moon peeking through periodically, and the occasional, sudden full black-out, which would douse the cavernous room in a darkness so complete that it was sure to elicit shrieks and squeals of delicious fright.

It was a concentration-intensive task, and so he failed to pay any attention to the bucket full of glitter that was being levitated over his head by Hannah Abbot, who was carrying four more pails of the sparkly stuff, two in each hand, toward the entrance hall, and was using wandless magic to float the fifth along, relying on a spell that required nothing more than that its caster maintained constant eye contact with the object she was levitating. Unfortunately, just as the bucket was passing over Draco's head, Hannah's eye contact with it was broken as she walked straight into Ernie MacMillan, who was walking backwards as he lugged a giant rubber spider in the opposite direction.

Hannah stumbled with a cry, but managed- though barely- to save the four pails she was carrying. The one she'd been floating, however, was a different story. It first tipped, then plummeted to the floor, narrowly missing Draco- its contents, however, spilled from it in a bright, shimmering wave, which proceeded to fall directly into Draco's upturned face.

Hermione's feet were hurrying her toward him even before she was consciously aware of moving at all. She reached him just as he clapped both hands over his face- approaching him from behind as he gave a choked "Argh!" and began coughing and spitting out the glitter that had gotten into his mouth.

"Malfoy?"

He spat again, then wiped the back of one hand hard across his lips. "Granger?" he asked, moving both hands, now, upward to cover his eyes- but he made no move to turn around.

"Malfoy!" She put her hands on his shoulders and forcibly turned him to face her. Glitter in Halloween colors- black and orange, purple and gold, glinted in his pale hair, and on his shoulders. His head was bowed and he was knuckling at his eyes- seeing him like that, he looked ten years younger than he was- young and helpless, like a child newly awakened, rubbing sleep away. She felt her heart give a funny little lurch in her chest.

There was nothing child-like, however, about the muffled stream of curses issuing from his mouth.

"Oh, for crying out loud- Malfoy! Last year I saw you fight like a holy terror, and now a little _glitter_ puts you out of commission?"

More curses.

"I'm warning you, lay off the Hufflepuffs, or I'm not going to help you. It was an accident!"

"I bloody well know it was an accident! That doesn't stop it from _hurting!_" he whined.

"Well, quit rubbing it in farther!" She pressed down on his shoulders. "Sit!"

"Sit _where?!_"

All right, now he was being difficult deliberately.

"On the damn floor!" She increased the pressure she was exerting on his shoulders, and he finally capitulated, dropping to the flagstone floor to sit cross-legged, still with shoulders hunched and hands over his eyes, still with a liberal dusting of glitter sparkling all over his upper body.

Hermione sank to her knees behind him and, reaching forward around him, took his hands and pulled them away from his face, forcing them down by his sides. She then grasped his head gently by the temples and tipped it backward, until he was staring straight up at the ceiling- or would have been, if his eyes hadn't been screwed shut, his whole face scrunched up, glitter caught in his eyebrows and lying across the bridge of his nose.

"You're going to have to open your eyes, Malfoy," she said, striving to keep her voice as calm and soothing as her hands. "Open them and look at me, okay?"

He did so; they were watering, which made them look less like slate and more like quicksilver. "All right, now hold still," she breathed, bending close over him, long, curling tendrils of hair that had escaped the loose, hastily constructed knot at the nape of her neck falling forward on either side of her face, coming to rest on his shoulders as she began, with utmost care, to brush away the glitter that was caught in his lashes, irritating his eyes.

She took her time, getting all that she could by hand before placing the tip of her wand to each of his eyes in turn and using a gentler variation of '_scourgify_' to remove the rest. "Blink several times and you should be all right," she told him.

He did, then smiled up at her- a genuine smile, which held both warmth and gratitude; it was the first expression of its kind that she had ever seen on his face, and it floored her. And then there were his eyes, still tear-bright- she was falling into them, losing herself; she should have been getting to her feet by now and on some distant, unimportant level, she knew this- but she couldn't tear herself away from those mercurial eyes.

And before she knew what she was doing, before she had a chance to impose any control upon herself whatsoever, she blurted out, "your eyes are-"

Then stopped abruptly, heart suddenly pounding. What in the name of heaven and earth was she _doing?_ Awareness returned to her in a rush and she realized that she was kneeling on the floor of the Great Hall, with Draco Malfoy seated cross-legged in front of her- head tilted back and resting on the swell of her breasts- leaning over him so closely that she could smell peppermint humbugs on his breath, and about to wax eloquent about his _eyes!_ And what was more, this was by no means a private location. In fact, she could see peripherally that a small crowd had gathered, attracted no doubt by his curses of a moment ago, now watching in fascination this bizarre scene between the Head Boy and Girl.

Color flooded her cheeks, and she started to pull back, but before she was able, Draco's right hand flashed up, quick as lightning- those Seeker reflexes of his coming into play beautifully- and caught her by the back of her neck, holding her firmly in place, bent close over him.

"My eyes are what, Granger?" he asked quietly, and as he spoke she saw that his eyes were, in fact, _blazing_- there was an intensity, a _heat_ in them that she had never seen before, had never even imagined... they were usually so cold, so guarded; she had heard it said that the eyes were the window to the soul, but if Draco's eyes were windows then ninety percent of the time they were boarded up.

But now they were alight with emotion- which emotion she couldn't tell and wasn't sure she wanted to, anyway- the force of it was nearly frightening. And alight like that, she couldn't help thinking, they were absolutely-

"B-" _beautiful._ That's what she nearly said, God help her. They were absolutely beautiful. But she caught herself just in the nick of time and managed to convert this thought into a much more acceptable answer; "better. Your eyes are all better. And- and there's work to be done."

It was as if shutters slammed into place behind those amazing eyes. The light in them abruptly went out, and in the next second they were as distant and unfathomable as ever.

"Right you are, Granger," he said shortly, and was on his feet in an instant, unfolding from his position on the floor with an easy grace that amazed Hermione, leaving her kneeling there feeling suddenly bereft, as if she'd just lost something dear to her before she'd even fully realized that she'd had it in the first place.

She shook her head as if to clear it of such foolish notions, and then Draco was extending a hand down to her and she took it and he pulled her easily to her feet- but by then he was already looking past her, and as soon as she'd regained her balance he moved away from her, moved away without looking back, and she was left standing there, dazed, staring at Ron and Harry who were staring right back at her, agape.

What in the _hell_ had just happened? And why couldn't she shake the feeling that it could have turned out another way- that she _wished_, suddenly and fervently, that it had turned out another way?

"I-" she stammered, and her eyes were drawn away from her two best friends, skimming the now dispelling crowd of students to rest on Lavender and Parvati, who were standing a short distance away and whispering furiously, eyes cutting back and forth between her and Draco nearly as rapidly as if they were watching a tennis match.

"I need to get some air," she blurted abruptly, to no one in particular, and then she was running, flat-out _running_- so much for preserving her dignity; it was now officially in shreds- out of the Great Hall, through the entryway, and right out of the castle, just as Harry had done several days before.


	4. Chapter the Fourth: Ambush!

She was sitting on the front steps with her head resting against her knees, face turned to the side, breathing in, as deeply as was possible in her admittedly constricted position, the chill, autumn-scented, end-of-October air, when Harry and Ron joined her.

She felt vaguely ashamed, as they settled themselves on either side of her, that she hadn't made it farther from the school, but the moment she had thrown open the front doors and the blast of cool, late-afternoon air had rushed over her, the urge to flee had left her and she had simply collapsed onto the steps, waiting for her composure to return.

She had felt like she was going to be waiting all night.

But then, not two minutes later, the doors had opened again, and now here they were, her oldest and closest friends. She watched Ron as he sank down beside her, merely because he happened to be on the side of her to which her head was turned. He folded his body- overlong, it appeared of late; a jumble of arms and legs he wasn't quite at home in as of yet- slightly awkwardly into a sitting position, and flashed her his tentative '_I know you're on edge right now but just remember I'm your best mate and please don't bite my head off_' grin.

"Hey," she said, and realized there was a smile tugging at her reluctant lips even as she felt Harry's arm sling itself about her from the other side. She turned her head toward her other best friend as Ron's arm encircled her also, both of them leaning into her now, lending her their warmth- their strength.

She gave Harry the same cracked little smile she'd given Ron, taking in his ink-black hair, his ever-troubled eyes- the former as untidy, and the latter as intense, as she'd ever seen them. There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch and stretch. Then-

"It's all right, you know, Hermione," Harry said quietly.

"What's all right?" she asked, rather more sharply than was usual for her, caught off guard as she was.

"This thing with Malfoy," Ron said matter-of-factly from her other side.

"_What_ thing with Malfoy?" she demanded, not liking the way her voice sounded; defensive and high-pitched, edging dangerously close to hysteria. "There is no _thing_ with Malfoy!"

And that was when Ron, ever tactful, blurted out, "he fancies you too, you know."

"W-_what?_" Hermione spluttered, now feeling more completely wrong-footed than she'd ever felt before in her life. First of all, she knew no such thing- Malfoy, fancy her? Absurd. Second of all, and more disturbing still, was the addition to Ron's sentence of that little word, "too"- a tiny little word, but oh, such very large implications!

First and foremost of which, of course, was the fact that the two people who knew her best in all the world were apparently under the impression that she was harboring some sort of- of- _thing_ for Draco Malfoy, self-appointed resident arrogant prat- and- here was the clincher- they didn't seem to mind a bit!

What next?

She felt herself droop, the surprised indignation- false, anyway, all of it false- whooshing out of her, leaving her feeling smaller, deflated. Harry and Ron truly knew her better than she knew herself. They had seen through defenses she had erected without even being aware of doing so; defenses she had begun to buy into herself, because the alternative was just too scary.

Hermione's world was sane, logical, ordered, predictable... and she _liked_ it that way. But a world in which she could find herself falling for a boy she had flat-out hated for the first five-and-a-half of her years at Hogwarts, and had been, at best, ambivalent toward in the time since he had crossed to the Light- that was a world in which _anything_ could happen. It took her logical worldview and turned it right on its ear.

Which was scarier than hell.

And so she still attempted to protest... but the fight had gone out of her. "I don't know what you guys are talking about," she said, wearily.

She saw Ron and Harry exchange glances over her head.

"He almost came after you just now," Harry said. As her eyes widened, he continued, "the second he heard the doors bang, he spun around, scanned the entire hall, and was already heading for the entrance- fast- when he saw us going the same way. It was only then that he turned away again... and he was muttering something-"

"He was saying, 'I bloody well told her about bloody well going outdoors, and then she goes and picks this of all bloody days,'" Ron chimed in, then added, with his penchant for understatement, "he seemed a bit upset."

"He seemed-" Hermione echoed, then shook her head. "But why?"

"Well, I don't know exactly what would bother him so much about you getting a breath of fresh air," Harry said, looking faintly puzzled as he spoke, "but whatever his concerns actually are, they spring from- and I thought we covered this already- they spring from the fact that he clearly f-"

"No, he doesn't!" she cried almost desperately, cutting him off. "He can't! It makes no sense! I mean..." her voice dropped to a whisper. "Why would he?"

Ron actually looked personally affronted at this. "Why _would_ he?" he echoed incredulously. "Hermione, why _wouldn't_ he? Why wouldn't anyone, for that matter? You're..." he trailed off. Ron had never been good at phrasing compliments.

"Brilliant," Harry filled in for him.

"And... kind," Ron said, faltering just a little bit.

"And brave," Harry added.

"And stubborn," Ron said, "but, erm, in a good way. I think that's called... perseverance?"

"And generous," said Harry, raising an eyebrow at Ron; an amused look that as much as said, _stubborn in a good way? That the best you can do, Weasley?_

"And-" Ron paused for a second, blushed furiously, then said in a rush, "absolutely gorgeous, Hermione. He'd have to be blind not to see that. But um- don't tell Millie I said so, okay?"

Hermione looked back and forth between them, dumbfounded. She knew, of course, the deep and abiding friendship and love they both had for her, but to hear it put into words this way- tears sprang to her eyes and she shot abruptly to her feet. When Ron and Harry followed suit, looking bewildered, and increasingly worried that they had done something wrong, she threw her arms around them both, pulling them into a fierce group embrace.

They stood thus for a long, long moment, Harry and Ron's arms coming up to wrap around her, until finally Hermione, who had initiated the three-way hug, terminated it, stepping back and dabbing at her eyes.

She took a deep, steadying breath then- feeling ready, at last, to face this "thing with Malfoy" head on. With the support of her two best friends, there was no challenge too great for her, no feat too daunting. Not even admitting that yes, perhaps- just _perhaps_- there was a spark of interest there... and that it seemed to be mutual. It was still a scary concept for her... but exciting, too.

There was just one more thing to clarify, though, with Ron and Harry.

"You really wouldn't mind?" she asked, looking back and forth between them. "Because I know how you both hated him... what am I saying, _I_ hated him too, but... but I want to know I have your blessings, because I'd never do _anything_ to jeopardize..." she spread her hands, the gesture encompassing the three of them standing there on the steps, so close she could still smell them, even though the physical contact had been broken- Ron smelled like the cologne Millicent had given him on the first day of term- he'd been wearing nearly offensive amounts of it ever since. And Harry- Harry smelled like Quidditch.

"No," Harry said. "I wouldn't mind. People can change. I believe that; I have to. Life would be too bleak otherwise. Malfoy is different now. He proved that last year. And though I may not consider him quite good enough for you, I think the same could be said of just about any man. I'm always gonna be protective, so it's a moot point. Malfoy, at least, will accept that, I think. He and I may never be the best of friends, but we understand each other now."

Hermione thought back to the day Draco had sprained his ankle. He had reminded her of Harry when he'd flown that day, fast and furious, bent flat over his broom- and then again later in his reaction to pain- _it's true_, she thought; _they are more alike than different. So many years wasted on hatred, when they _could _have been great friends. _

Knowing where Harry stood, she next turned her attention to Ron.

"I wouldn't mind," Ron said, looking suddenly exquisitely uncomfortable. "Though I have to warn you that... that being involved with a Slytherin isn't always easy, Hermione... Malfoy feels something for you, and it's strong, and it's real. I know the look of a man in love because-" he paused and took a deep breath, blushing positively crimson- "because I am one."

Hermione just stared at him for several heartbeats, open-mouthed. Then, before she could stop herself, she was laughing- it was bubbling up out of her, sudden and genuine and uncontrollable. "Why, Ronald Weasley," she exclaimed between chuckles, her eyes now dancing with mirth and mischief, "that's positively the most adorable thing you've ever said. I'm going to tell Millicent _right now_!" And as his expression changed to one of shocked outrage- but only feigned outrage; beneath the thin veneer she could tell that he was about to dissolve into laughter himself- she made a dash back toward the front door.

"Don't you _dare_!" Ron shouted, right behind her. "Don't you even _think_ about it, Hermione!"

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She held her head high as she reentered the Great Hall, flanked by "her boys", and met every stare that came her way head-on. There was one gaze, though- one gray-silver gaze she would no longer deny that she was searching for- that she did not catch. Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be seen in the Great Hall, and though Hermione remained for another hour or so, finalizing preparations under the enchanted ceiling, which showed Draco's ominously modified sky- (every four to five minutes all work had to come to a screeching halt for thirty seconds or so as the room was plunged into inky darkness)- he did not return.

The next time she laid eyes on him, the Haunted House was well underway.

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"Right," Hermione said, pasting a bright smile on her ghost-pale face (she'd gone ahead with the ghost costume more or less just as she'd described it Draco weeks earlier- though sans chains) and looking around at the dozen or so over-excited first-years who were clustered tightly around her, waiting their turn to be guided through the haunted house. "You've all paid the admission? Very good. We'll be inside for about ten minutes- if you could all take hold of this ribbon-" she unfurled a long, bright orange satin ribbon and the enthusiastic youngsters each seized a length of it, rearranging themselves perforce from a motley clump into a single file line- which was, of course, precisely the result Hermione had intended. As long as the jittery first-years managed to hold on, they would be kept together in an orderly fashion on their haunted tour.

The seventh-years had decided- largely at Hermione's insistence- that no students under the age of thirteen should be allowed into the haunted house unescorted. Therefore, it was she who had been assigned the role of tour guide for Hogwarts' youngest students- (the fact that she was easy to see in the dark, all decked out in white as she was, being an additional advantage)- while all those third-year and above were allowed to navigate through the seventh-years' macabre masterpiece on their own- though in groups no smaller than four.

When Hermione's current tour group had finished arranging themselves to her satisfaction, and had quieted down enough, each with a firm grip on the ribbon, to listen attentively to her last-minute instructions, she said, smiling at the excited trepidation on their small faces, "as you already know, there is only one way into and out of the Great Hall; these doors here before you. That means that we will basically walk a large circle through the room, beginning and ending with these doors. There will be a well-lit pathway that will take us past several- ah- exhibits. At intervals along the path will be stationed seventh-year students wearing bright orange vests. If at any time there comes a point where you would no longer wish to continue through the haunted house, please wait until you see one of these individuals, then- and only then- let go the ribbon and approach him or her. Through the use of specialized portkeys which Headmistress McGonagall has authorized for tonight only, you will be quickly and safely transported straight back into the entrance hall. However-" she held up a finger and grinned- "only those who finish the tour receive complimentary chocolate. Now... are we clear? All right. Well, we've worked hard on this, so... brace yourselves!"

The first-years tittered wildly, clutching onto the ribbon and in some cases each other, as the doors to the Great Hall creaked open slowly, menacingly, as they had been enchanted to do tonight, and Hermione led them into the gloom beyond.

The noise of the crowded entrance hall, with its admission booth, jostling line of students waiting their turns to enter, and butterbeer stand that was doing quite a brisk little business, faded to nothing as soon as the doors boomed shut behind them; the sound magically magnified several times over.

The group of youngsters reacted with shrieks and squeals as Hermione led them down a maze-like passageway created of huge black sheets, hanging floor-to-ceiling, and opening every so often to reveal one carefully staged exhibit of horror after another; here were Lavender, Parvati, and Susan Bones advancing on them in flowing black gowns, ruby-painted lips pulled back to reveal long, pointed fangs tipped with red- a little further on, Blaise Zabini and Ernie MacMillan were "blood splattered" mad scientists, gibbering over Padma Patil, who lay chained to a steel table (borrowed from the kitchen), covered by equally gore-stained sheets and screaming bloody murder (Hermione thought it a small miracle the girl's voice hadn't given out yet).

On her first trip through, these scenes had given Hermione quite a start herself, the fact that she had recognized most of her classmates notwithstanding- but they no longer had any real effect on her. The Haunted House had opened for business promptly at seven o'clock, and it was now nearly eight-thirty. She had been through it half a dozen times already.

This trip through, however, was destined to be different. It was right after she'd led her first-year tour group past the pack of werewolves- Dean, Seamus and Justin, howling their hearts out- that she was ambushed.

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It happened in a flash.

She was leading the group around the final corner before the pathway straight back toward the doors out to the entrance hall, and the butterbeer stand beyond. This was Hermione's favorite part of the Haunted House because this was where Harry and Ron were, along with Millicent Bulstrode, of course, she and Ron being, lately, more or less inseparable. First there would be a pair of eerie skeletons to pass- she knew one of them was Neville, because she'd seen him in his costume in the common room half-an-hour before the Haunted House had opened, but the other one she'd been unable to identify, as their faces were fully covered. Then at last they'd be passing the Haunted House's 'piece de resistance'; the giant rubber spider Ernie had been lugging around earlier, which had been enchanted into life by Harry and Millicent, who controlled it from the shadows, wearing black bodysuits- (they had come up with the idea purely as a means of tormenting Ron, of course.) It always elicited by far the loudest and most horrified screams from those passing by. And then there would be Ron himself, sitting just inside the exit wearing an orange vest that clashed quite horribly with his freckles and hair, having vehemently refused to be a part of any 'spider-related shenanigans', as he'd put it, instead handing out small chunks of complimentary chocolate to all who passed, while scarfing down at least as much as he distributed from the self-replenishing bowl he held.

But on this trip through, which was, as it happened, to be her last trip through, Hermione encountered none of this- because, just as she rounded that final corner, a pair of strong arms snaked out from behind one of the black sheets and yanked her swiftly behind it.

In that first instant she was too shocked to scream, and in the next one, when she opened her mouth and sucked in a breath to do so, a hand clamped over the lower half of her face, preventing her. She was still holding onto the front end of the ribbon, and the first-years were all still standing there, right there on the other side of the sheet- _so close_, she thought hysterically, _they're so close to me, and yet-_ she could hear them jostling and tittering and whispering; they were not alarmed in the least, she realized; they thought this was a standard part of the tour. The old disappearing guide trick, sure. And why not? It had been carried off so smoothly. And then she realized that it was _still_ in the process of being carried off, and still smoothly too- in the next instant she felt a hand- and not either of the hands that were restraining her- sharply tug the ribbon from her grasp and an orange-vested body pushed past her- _there were _two_ people waiting for me back here,_ she realized.

What came as a greater shock than that realization was when she caught a brief glimpse of just who that orange-vested body belonged to. She stopped for a moment, just this side of the curtain, holding the lead ribbon she'd snatched away from Hermione, turned toward her where she stood immobile, terrified, with one of her assailant's arms clamping both of hers to her sides from behind, the other still covering her mouth, preventing her from making a sound. Hermione's eyes widened to huge proportions when she realized who it was that had just usurped her tour.

Pansy dropped her a quick grin- a flash of white in the gloom- and a cheeky wink, then leaned back in toward her and whispered conspiratorially, "you're a lucky girl, Granger, but just so you know... he's my best friend, and I'll kill you if you hurt him." Then she was gone around the edge of the curtain and Hermione could hear her on the other side of it, calmly explaining to the first-years that she would be leading them through the remainder of the tour and yes, for Merlin's sake, they would still get their chocolate at the end!

Mind reeling from this entire experience, but most of all from Pansy's words, Hermione felt the hand that had been clamped over her mouth fall away... but the urge to scream had left her, as she now had a pretty good idea of who must be holding her this way. And then both hands were on her shoulders, gentle now, turning her around to face...

The other skeleton, of course. But with his mask and hood now removed- revealing hair, tousled and staticky from hours spent under cover, that glimmered more like silver than ever in the dim light. He was wearing a black bodysuit similar to Harry's, but this one had bright white bones painted onto it, in eerily glowing phosphorescent paint. It was a wonderful costume really... especially up close like this, where it allowed for a good appreciation of the lithe physique beneath it. Draco Malfoy was by no means a big, strapping boy- he was only a dozen or so centimeters taller than Hermione herself- but was possessed of a hard, wiry sort of strength that lent itself well, again just like Harry's, to swiftness and dexterity on land and in flight alike.

These thoughts flashed through her mind in what seemed like a millisecond- and then were replaced by sheer red outrage. Attractive costume or not, how dare he treat her like this and frighten her so?!? Just who in the hell did he _think he was_?

This time her hand was flying toward his face before she even realized she'd moved at all- but there was no satisfying _thwack_ of palm connecting with cheek, because he caught her by the wrist only just in time and, holding her hand hostage between them, grinned down at her- he _was_ taller, if only by a little- and said calmly, "hey, Granger... nice costume."

This caught Hermione so off-guard that she actually looked down at herself for a moment, then back up at him, feeling the anger ebb out of her... somewhat, at least, if not completely. She was still fuming, though no longer seeing red. "Draco Malfoy," she hissed, "what in God's name makes you think you have the right to _manhandle_ me like-"

Draco seemed not to hear her at all. He let go her wrist and then raised his own hand- the one which had been clamped over her mouth- into the dim light to examine the white smudges that now covered it. He stared at it meditatively for a moment, flexing his fingers, then reached out and ran his index finger lightly down her cheek, bringing it away a moment later to examine the newest white smudge on his fingertip. "Makeup," he said, in a musing sort of voice. "Not bad." Then he raised his eyes back to hers. "I was wrong about the white hair, though. It suits the costume perfectly, of course, but it doesn't suit you. Your own color is much nicer."

Hermione stared at him in astonishment, waiting for him to go on and ruin this compliment, just as he had ruined the one he'd given her after the seventh-years' meeting all those weeks ago, with a snide remark of some sort.

But he didn't. He just kept right on looking at her, steadily, saying nothing more, as she felt a flush mounting in her cheeks and wondered if it was visible right through the white makeup. He was clearly waiting for her to speak again, and she felt completely thrown off-balance by this whole encounter. It was enough to make her snappish all over again.

"If you think, Malfoy, that you can jerk me around like this and then just patch everything over with insincere compliments-"

He leaned in toward her then, so close their noses nearly touched, so close she could smell, once again, peppermint on his breath. "I don't give insincere compliments," he said quietly. "I mean what I say, Granger. I mean _everything_ I say. So I want you to listen very carefully right now. I-"

And then all hell broke loose.


	5. Chapter the Fifth: Night Swimming

The room was plunged into darkness in that instant by one of Draco's carefully contrived blackouts- and in the very next second an earsplitting alarm rang out, chilling in its implications. It had been one of Dumbledore's final acts before he had fallen in battle; he had strengthened the wards on the school, made it impossible for an unforgivable curse to be performed within the castle, and added the feature that was being experienced by the Hogwarts population for the first time right now; an alarm that would sound whenever a person wearing the Dark Mark (other than, of course, the castle's resident ex-Death Eater and potions professor) set foot inside the door.

This could mean only one thing; at least one, and possibly more, of the Azkaban escapees were here- _inside._

Though she could no longer see Draco in the pitch black, Hermione heard his sharp inhalation and felt him stiffen, his hand coming up to grip her shoulders hard. "Granger-" he said, then broke off as McGonagall's voice, magically magnified, boomed through the room;

_PLEASE REMAIN CALM. ALL STUDENTS ARE TO RETURN TO THEIR COMMON ROOMS AT ONCE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. PLEASE REMAIN CALM. ALL STUDENTS ARE TO RETURN TO THEIR COMMON ROOMS AT ONCE. I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL._

This announcement was followed by a chorus of screams, running feet, sounds of collisions and general chaos from within the Haunted House, which was still in blackout mode, all set to the continuous wailing of the alarm in the background.

"Bloody hell," Draco swore then. "Bloody fucking hell. I had a feeling he might come today." His fingers on her shoulders tightened painfully. "Granger- find Potter and Weasley and stay with them, all right? And whatever you do, try to keep out of sight and away from the front door."

"But what are-"

He shook her then, once, hard, just as he had that day out on the grounds. "_Just do it, damnit!_ Look, I don't have time to explain right now, but... please just do this. For me. I'll tell you everything when the danger's past."

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. There was a dangerous intensity to Draco in this moment that both frightened and exhilarated her; she could feel it practically radiating out from him. Could feel it in how tightly he was holding onto her, could feel it in the coiled tautness of his body in the dark. And she recognized it, oh yes- she hadn't gone nearly seven years with two male best friends for nothing. It was protectiveness- Draco had been exhibiting anxiety ever since the news of the prison break, but now he clearly thought her in imminent danger... and he was pissed as hell about it, too.

"Yeah, okay," she said finally, all of her usual eloquence seeming to have fled her at the stupendous realization of just how much Draco must care.

"C'mon," he said then, letting go of her shoulders and taking her hand. "Let's get to the entrance hall. Potter and Weasley were right by the door, right? So they're probably there already. Until the lights come back on in here, don't let go."

But of course she did.

Not by choice, obviously; it happened shortly after he'd pulled her out from behind the sheet which had been concealing them, and back onto the pathway. The pathway was lined on both sides with flickering tealights in hollowed out miniature pumpkins, so it wasn't as dark out here, but nevertheless pandemonium reigned. Students ran this way and that, most, like Draco and Hermione, making for the exit; but not all. Some, apparently panicked, were racing about seemingly at random. A few had lit their wands, but most had not- had most likely not even brought them in here in the first place. Hermione had brought hers, and was just reaching up with her free hand to pull it out of her bun- she'd been using it again to hold her hair in place, a common practice of hers- when someone running the wrong way shoved right in between her and Draco, tearing her hand from his.

"Draco!" she shouted, realizing, even as she did so, that she had just addressed him by his given name for the very first time- but he was being swept along with the crowd toward the entrance hall.

"Stay with me, Hermione!" she heard him call back to her, but just at that moment she heard a voice hiss in her ear- _Quietus Totalus!_- and then she was being yanked behind the nearest sheet, for the second time that night- only this time, by her hair.

_DRACO!_ She tried to scream again- but no sound came out.

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The instant they were off the path and concealed, her attacker's hands found her throat- and squeezed. She bucked and fought for all she was worth, but he simply increased the pressure until the shouts of the students on the other side of the sheet- was that Draco she heard yelling her name?- faded, until she saw bursts of light in the darkness before her eyes, and slumped back against his chest, not quite unconscious, but no longer able to offer any real resistance.

"All right, my little mudblood," Lucius Malfoy- _of course it was Lucius Malfoy_- murmured to her then, his voice almost gentle in her ear, "it's time for us to go. A swift death is too good for you, see... I intend to take my time, and time is not a luxury we have within these walls. Not to mention, all the wards on this bloody place cramp my style. So-" she felt him reach forward around her, draping some sort of- of- _cloak?_ she thought hazily; _yes, it's an invisibility cloak. No wonder no one saw him enter-_ over her, and heard him mutter an enlargement charm when it didn't quite manage to cover the both of them completely. Then they were moving; they were back out on the pathway, which by now contained far fewer hysterical students, and so they were unimpeded as he half-carried, half-dragged her toward the entrance hall, one hand still fisted in her thick hair, should she recover herself enough to attempt another escape.

She did not, but she did have the presence of mind, when she felt her wand, which had been knocked loose in the struggle, fall out of her hair, to squeeze her eyes shut and concentrate with all her might, envisioning it lying on the floor, shining brightly in the dark, a beacon begging to be found; a distress signal. She mouthed the word _Lumos_, praying that her magic would be strong enough, even wandless and soundless, to accomplish this task and bring help.

_Please find me_..._ Harry, Ron, _Draco,_ please_..._ oh God, please!_

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He dragged her through the entrance hall, right past Harry, Ron and Draco who were running back toward the Great Hall- Draco had apparently enlisted them to help him search for her in there. She gathered all her strength and lunged toward her boys, but Lucius had seen them too and had anticipated her reaction. He was ready for her, yanking her back, hard, against him, his fist tightening in her hair until she screamed out in agony- but silently, of course. And then he was pulling her through the front doors- they were open already, as many students who had bought butterbeer at the stand in the entrance hall and brought it outdoors to drink were now being shooed back in. Hermione had a brief revelation that that must have been how Lucius had managed to sneak inside while retaining his invisibility; by timing it with one of the butterbeer drinkers either coming or going through the great doors- and then he murmured in her ear again, a single word-

"_Imperio_."

It was all downhill from there. Literally, as he proceeded to lead her away from the castle, down the long, sloping lawn toward the lake, both of them still underneath the invisibility cloak, the silencing spell still in place as an added precaution, just in case she should manage somehow to throw off the Imperius Curse.

And she _was_ trying- but to no avail. Lucius was quite accomplished in the Unforgivables, after all- they were, one might say, his area of expertise- and she was still in a weakened state from her near-strangulation just moments ago. The best she managed was to slow their progress somewhat by repeatedly tripping over her own feet, each time earning herself a sharp yank forward by the hair.

He finally stopped on the lakeshore, far from the light and noise and hubbub of the castle. He whipped the cloak off both of them, muttered a quick binding spell that forced Hermione's arms behind her back, then released her from the Imperius Curse and shoved her backward, against the trunk of a nearby tree. Hermione cried out instinctively at this- only to realize that although the Imperius was off her, the silencing spell was not. She still could make no sound- not that anyone in the castle could have heard her now anyway; they were too far away.

Lucius, haggard from his time in prison and on the run, yet still wearing the same expression of haughty disdain she remembered from the past, looked her up and down coldly. "It's been a long time, mudblood," he sneered. "What a happy coincidence that I saw you hand-in-hand with my son in that ridiculous funhouse up at the school... I never would have recognized you otherwise, especially with your hair the way it is. Let's remedy that, shall we? I think I'd like to see you as you truly are." He tangled his hand once again in her hair, which now fell loose and disheveled, a jumble of thick ghost-white curls reaching the middle of her back, and said, "_finite incantatum_." Her ethereally pale hair was flooded with color then; her own rich chestnut brown returning in a wave from the roots to the tips.

"That's better," Lucius said matter-of-factly, resuming his appraisal of her. "This is what I wanted to see- the girl who made a traitor out of my son."

_I don't understand!_ she tried to scream out, more in a bid for time than anything else- because she was beginning to understand- she'd been having inklings all day. But of course, it was to no avail, and it appeared that her time was up.

Lucius took a step back from her, his right hand still extended toward her- _he's been doing all this without even a wand,_ she realized then, sickly- and shook his head, an expression of bitter amusement vying with disgust on his face. "I just don't see what the attraction is, really," he said. "Sorry. And so, mudblood- enough talk."

Her eyes widened, the thought _find me, Draco, find me find me find me PLEASE_ racing through her mind in the split second before Lucius Malfoy opened his mouth once more;

"_Crucio_."

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Up in the Great Hall, Hermione's wand, which had indeed been glowing softly- red, the color of distress- but had gone unnoticed up til now, due to the unfortunate fact that it had fallen into a deep fold of one of the black curtain-like sheets- abruptly began shooting off huge quantities of bright red sparks, accompanied by loud sizzling and popping sounds. A clearer distress beacon could hardly be imagined, and it finally managed to capture Draco's attention as he rounded a bend in the pathway, shouting Hermione's name with his own wand out and ready for anything.

Upon seeing the sparks being shooting out into his path, the words "oh, _shit_" and "_accio_" all left his mouth in a rush, almost before he realized he'd spoken at all. The wand fairly leapt into his outstretched hand, giving Draco the distinct impression that could it have spoken, it would have been screaming for haste.

He thrust his own wand into his costume's sole well-concealed pocket, laid Hermione's flat on his palm, and said, "point me. Point me to your owner. _Point me to Hermione!_" The wand spun, then came to rest pointing straight toward the castle's nearest outer wall. It was quite obvious to Draco that Hermione was not between himself and the wall; that could mean only one thing. That what he'd feared the most had come to pass; his father had gotten Hermione out of the castle somehow.

He was running for the door then, not even pausing to alert Harry and Ron; they had ceased to matter, to even exist for him. His world had narrowed down to three people only; himself, Hermione, and his father.

He took the castle's front steps two at a time, then was racing across the grounds, down the slope toward the lake, running faster than he ever had before. To have traveled any more quickly he would have needed to be on his broomstick... and even so, he was nearly too late.

00000

Lucius hadn't wasted very much time torturing Hermione. A brief yet intense Cruciatus was sufficient, he'd apparently decided, to get his point across. Lucius was not a stupid man; stupid men did not rise through the ranks to become the Dark Lord's Right Hand, nor did they successfully engineer and carry off massive prison breaks from the world's most feared wizarding penitentiary. He realized that even outside the castle, time was of the essence, and he had his priorities straight- and his number one priority was the death of the mudblood who had, whether intentionally or not, caused his only child to turn against him and his whole way of life. There was nothing left for him; the cause he had fought for and the wife he had loved were both lost to the war; his freedom and his dignity stripped from him in its aftermath; and his son, the culmination of twenty generations of proud Malfoy blood, had become a mudblood-loving turncoat. He would never be able to reclaim any of it- would live out the rest of his life a hunted, haunted man- but he could have the satisfaction of killing _her_- that, by Merlin, he _could_ have.

He had told her all this, rapidly, as she lay gasping in the wake of the curse, arms still bound magically behind her, and then had gone on to tell her that in his opinion, she didn't even deserve a magical death; he had wasted entirely too much magic on her already, and when it came to killing mudbloods, Muggle means would do.

His hands had closed back over her throat.

00000

That was when Draco arrived on the scene, dropping Hermione's wand in his haste and hurling himself at his father, knocking him off Hermione with such force that the two Malfoys went rolling over and over each other, now locked together in mortal combat, grappling with all thought of magic forgotten for the moment- until Lucius, gritting his teeth, still dead set on finishing what he had started, managed to shoot an arm out toward Hermione, who was attempting to struggle into a sitting position... and without a word- with only his will and a violent flinging gesture of his arm- hurled her magically through the air and into the dark, frigid lake.

Draco heard the splash and disengaged. When he'd first launched himself at his father, he had caught enough of a glimpse of Hermione to realize that her arms were bound behind her, and now the words _can't swim with bound arms, can't swim with bound arms_ were flashing through his mind as he stumbled to his feet and tried to make for the lakeshore- but Lucius caught him around the ankle and yanked his legs back out from under him, causing him to fall hard, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Even so, Draco was twisting around in the next instant, attacking his father with renewed, desperate fury, fighting now only to get away, to reach Hermione before it was too late.

Lucius, for his part, was fighting merely to subdue his son. His goal was apparently to immobilize Draco rather than to hurt him- to prevent him from interfering until nature could take its course. "Don't you... understand..." the elder Malfoy panted as he struggled with his son, "I'm doing this... for you, Draco! You will... thank me... someday, I swear it! Think of the blood that runs through your veins... twenty generations of Malfoy pride... of _Slytherin_ pride... as if I'd let you... my only child, my only heir... the sole continuation of our noble line... throw all that away... to consort with some Gryffindor _mudblood_... when you come to your senses, Draco, I'll gladly accept... your apology... for your actions in the war... and tonight."

"Fuck you," Draco snarled, in no mood to debate, frantic now to escape and reach the lake. "Fuck you, fuck you, I wish you were dead!" Managing to get the upper hand now- he was younger, after all, and healthier too; life in Azkaban and then on the run had not been kind to Lucius- he straddled his father, grabbed him by the hair two-fisted, yanked his head up, and slammed it back on the ground. Then he did it again- and again. Knowing that so long as his father was conscious, he would not be able to reach Hermione unimpeded. He needed to knock Lucius unconscious- or kill him, whichever came first; he didn't particularly care at the moment.

Actually, that wasn't true. He bloody well wanted to kill him.

Then there were hands on him, pulling him backward and up, off of his father, and he was struggling against them blindly, in the grip of a red rage that demanded he keep pounding Lucius' head against the hard, October-chilled earth until there was nothing left but pulp.

"Malfoy!" someone was shouting insistently in his ear. "Malfoy! Where's Hermione? Goddamnit, Malfoy, _where is she?!?_"

_Potter_, he realized, and then awareness returned in a flood; he'd forgotten for a moment why it was he'd even _been_ attempting to turn his father's head into mush, but now- "Hermione! Oh, FUCK!" He wrenched himself away from Harry and Ron, but then stood where he was for a space of several heartbeats, torn now between going after her, which was already, he sensed, a lost cause- and finishing what he had started here- namely, committing patricide.

Harry grabbed him and spun him around so that they were standing face to face. "Malfoy," he said in a voice of forced calm, "leave your father to us. He's not worth the guilt you'd carry if you killed him. But, and this is important- if you know what he's done with Hermione, you _must go and get her, NOW!_ Do you understand?"

Draco took one last look at where his father lay- Ron now crouched beside him, wand out, muttering the words of a complex body and magic binding spell that even Lucius, when he regained full use of his faculties (at the moment he appeared to be in a deep and harmless daze) would be unable to thwart.

"Malfoy, GO!" Harry shoved him hard on the shoulder and then, finally, his limbs were obeying him again and he was moving.

He backed away one step, and then another- then turned and pelted the short distance to the lake, stumbling, tripping over his own feet in his frantic haste, his normal easy grace gone, swept away in a tide of panic. He skidded to a halt on the lakeshore, his feet throwing up the little pebbles that lay close to the water's edge. Whipping his wand from his pocket, he extended it over the water, which was now lapping at his shoes, and shouted "_Accio Hermione Granger!_"

There passed an instant in which he was sickeningly sure the spell had not worked; that Hermione was lost, never to be found again by anyone save perhaps the giant squid, and he actually fell to his knees. Then there was a disturbance in the still, black surface of the water, and Hermione's body shot into the air, the desperate force of his magic hurling her toward him, toward his arms which were, he noted with some mild surprise, extended to catch her- he didn't remember having raised them.

She slammed into him, knocking him flat onto his back- but only for a second. Then he was shifting her off of him, scrambling to his knees, pulling her, from where she lay crumpled on her side, onto her back, straightening her, releasing her arms from the binding spell, taking her by the shoulders and starting to shake her, repeating her name over and over again.

Not 'Granger'.

Her real name. _Hermione._

"Hermione! Oh, Merlin, no- Hermione!"

There was no response.

"Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit-"

Being submerged in the chill waters of the late-October lake had cleansed her of the makeup she had applied as part of her costume; Draco registered first this fact, and then the fact that this meant the blue tinge to her lips must actually be _real_. Her sopping, bedraggled hair lay half over her face; he pushed it away with shaking fingers, feeling a cold fist of despair clench around his heart. The white sheet which constituted her ghost costume was tangled about her, wrapped around and around her legs, soaked through and nearly transparent. It reminded him of a shroud.

"Hermione, please... snap out of it!"

Her skin was like ice.

And he was pretty damn sure that she wasn't breathing.

"No. Oh, no. Granger, come _on_!" This couldn't be happening. Please no.

He was no healer; he didn't know what to do. Shaking her had no discernable effect- neither did '_ennervate_', nor slapping her, which was the next thing he tried. When Harry and Ron arrived back on the scene some thirty seconds later, he was kneeling on the gravelly shore, the painted bones on his costume, and his messy halo of silver-white hair, standing out eerily against the black of the night. He had Hermione clasped to his chest; he was rocking her.

"She isn't breathing," he said simply, as they threw themselves to their knees beside him. He raised gray eyes to them that were wide, glazed windows of shock and horror. "She isn't breathing."

Ron, ashen, fumbled for something concealed beneath the orange vest he still wore from the Haunted House. He drew his hand out clutching a miniature pumpkin, barely larger than a good-sized gumball. "Portkey," he said, both his voice and his hand shaking. "It'll get us back to the entrance hall. Grab on." He placed the tiny object against Hermione's cold cheek, waited only long enough for Harry and Draco each to touch a finger to it, and said "activate." The four of them were whirled away.

They thudded to the floor of the entrance hall, landing hard; Hermione was wrenched from Draco's arms and it was Harry who gathered her up again, for in the next instant Draco was on his feet, screaming- and not for Madam Pomfrey, or any other staff member for that matter, but for Neville- Neville Longbottom.


	6. Chapter the Sixth: The Reason

It had been fortunate that when Harry, Ron, Draco and Hermione had arrived in the entrance hall, they'd slammed down amidst a group of some two dozen or so students, fifth-year and above, who'd flatly refused to be shooed off to their dorms. Most of them had fought in the massive battle the year before, and now _all_ of them were bound and determined to defend their school against whatever danger threatened it. Neville had been among them, had been at Hermione's side in an instant, and had known what to do. His innate modesty notwithstanding, Neville at seventeen was easily as competent in life-saving magic as the school's mediwitch- who was, at the moment, upstairs in the hospital wing, presiding over a ward full of hysterical younger students, some of whom had mild injuries from the stampeding of the Haunted House when the alarm had gone off, and many more who were simply distraught. Obviously, Hermione's case would have taken precedence had Madam Pomfrey been aware of it- but she was not aware of it.

No matter, though... Neville had seized control, and now, several moments and one hell of an awesome display of magical power later-

Hermione twisted from her back onto her side, coughing violently. She couldn't seem to get a deep breath; her throat felt like it was burning, and on top of that there was a vile, murky taste in her mouth that made her gag and retch. She was freezing, and was marginally aware of being wrapped in something cold and wet that was clinging to her, restricting her ability to move, especially her legs. Curling into a ball on her side, she finally managed a deep, hitching breath, and then spat, trying to get that foul taste out of her mouth.

Only then did she become aware that there were people all around her, and that she seemed to be inside- perhaps in the castle's entrance hall, judging by the smooth flagstones beneath her. She found this mildly surprising for some reason... she had expected to find herself outside- but why? And then it all came back in a rush; Lucius, and... the lake, oh God, the _lake_. She attempted to push herself into a sitting position and felt two pairs of arms come out to steady her- then she was being drawn in between two large, warm, solid, familiar-smelling bodies sitting on the floor; Harry and Ron. As their arms encircled her, she let her head fall forward onto the nearest shoulder- Ron's, she thought, but wasn't sure; everything was still a cold, wet blur to her- assuming that it was, indeed, Ron she was facing, that meant it was Harry leaning into her from behind, pressing himself against her, trying to give her some of his warmth.

There were voices now. Or rather, there had been voices since she'd first regained consciousness, but she was now beginning to make sense of them; to pick out words amongst the babble.

"-freezing. Harry, she's _shaking_. We've got to her out of this-" _Ron._

"-run up and get her some of my robes-" _Lavender_.

"-stupid, Brown, it'll take you a bloody half hour to get back here with all those damn stairs... the dungeons are much closer; _I'll_ go." _Pansy._

This last was followed by the sound of footsteps hurrying away. Then-

"-Hermione. Can you hear me? Say something, love." _Harry._

She dragged her arms up- they felt like lead- and wrapped them around whoever it was that was holding her upright... she was growing increasingly convinced that it was Ron, though by no means positive; she had yet to open her eyes. She did not attempt to speak, though. She didn't feel ready for that. For the moment, she just wanted to be held, to be warmed. Also, she wanted Draco. His voice was missing, she realized.

Where was Draco?

Her teeth began to chatter.

00000

The sound of running footsteps heralded Pansy's return some moments later. Hermione was aware of jostling as the Slytherin girl shoved her way unceremoniously through the crowd of gawkers that had surrounded the trio on the floor, Millicent right behind her, shouting now in her big booming voice for everyone to _get back, just get the hell back and give the girl some bloody room, for Merlin's sake_.

Hermione wondered foggily just what it was she'd disliked for so long about these Slytherins.

She felt herself being pulled away from Harry and Ron- she tried to cling to them, needing their solidity, needing their warmth- but to no avail. The hands that were on her now were smaller, feminine; and they were gentle, but also insistent.

"It's all right," Pansy said in her ear as she finally opened her eyes, blinking hard... but was unable to achieve any kind of focus. "We're just going to help you out of your wet clothes. Won't take a minute."

Above her, Millicent was shooing Harry and Ron back, and calling on all the girls present to gather around, forming a sort of human shield against male eyes as Pansy and... was that Ginny who'd pushed through?- she thought she could make out a splash of bright red hair- began peeling the cold, wet, dirty sheet off of her.

Pansy had apparently brought a towel too, for in the next instant she was being given a quick yet thorough rubbing down (as Millicent, standing guard above her, bellowed menacingly, "Colin Creevey, you nasty little perv, you'd better get that camera out of here _right the hell now_), then her arms were being pulled upward, above her head, just as if she were two years old, and a blessedly warm, soft garment was being guided over her head and smoothed down her body.

She saw, as her eyes finally came into focus, that it was a heavy, forest-green knit dress with a wide cowl-neck; long, straight, and unembellished, that would just graze the tops of her feet when she stood. It was a type of garment she'd seen many of the pureblooded girls wearing in their leisure time, and she wondered fleetingly whether there was a special term for it, and what its history was. She'd never owned one, nor had any inclination to, as she'd thought they looked far too dressy to be comfortable for lounging about in on weekends, which was how she'd mostly seen them being worn- but she now realized that, whether through the use of magic or simply through good design, those looks had been deceiving. Its elegant appearance aside, the dress fit her like a second skin; it had all the warm comfort of a favorite pair of Muggle sweats.

She made a quick mental note to pick up a few the next time she was in Diagon Alley.

Now her hair was being gathered back into a loose ponytail, deftly secured with what appeared, in the brief glimpse she got out of the corner of her eye, to be a wide green leather band. It occurred to her to be faintly amused that she was now, to all appearances, a perfectly pedigreed, pureblooded princess (_there's some alliteration for you, Lav,_ she thought)... Lucius Malfoy, eat your heart out.

Bastard.

"-up now?"

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"I said," Pansy repeated, "do you feel able to stand up now?"

"Oh. Yes, I... I think so."

Pansy and Ginny were helping her up then, and she had a brief moment in which to observe the cadre of sixth and seventh-year girls from various houses- Lavender, Padma, Parvati, Susan, Hannah, Luna, and of course, Millicent- who had circled around to protect her from potentially prying male eyes- and cameras- (that Colin did get a little more creepy with each passing year)- and then Harry and Ron were breaking through the human barricade and sweeping her into a tight three-way embrace once more.

"God, Hermione, we thought-"

"-ever, _ever_ scare us like that again, do you hear me?!?"

Then Neville was there, drawing her gently away and giving her a brief once-over, vanishing the bruises that had been darkening on her throat before declaring her basically all right. The crowd was thinning now; the fifth, sixth and seventh-year students who had been gathered in the entrance hall, ready to defend their school, wandering away in twos and threes as it became apparent that the danger had passed and the only casualty of it had made a full recovery. A moment later, only Harry, Ron, Millicent and Pansy remained.

"Where-" Hermione paused, rallying herself to speak. "What happened to Lucius?"

"We told the professors where to find him," Ron said grimly. "McGonagall said the bodies of the six other convicts have just been discovered- apparently Lucius engineered the whole escape, and brought them with him so that the Ministry, assuming they were looking for seven criminals who'd have scattered in all directions, would spread themselves thin instead of concentrating all their resources on hunting just one man. As soon as the escape was a success, he killed them all; they'd served their purpose. Ingenious, really, in a ruthless, evil way. Snape said he'll be going back to prison, but not Azkaban. A prison for the worst of the worst, deep underground. Under Siberia, actually. I'd never heard of it until tonight."

Hermione's eyes widened. "I've read about that, but I never actually credited it. I thought it was just a myth. There are no first-hand accounts, because... because no one's ever come out alive."

Harry shot Ron a quelling look, then reached out and cupped her cheek. "Let's not dwell on that right now," he said gently. "Are you all right? I mean, really? I think you should go to the hospital wing just to make sure."

"Yeah," Ron put in. He was standing a little off to the side, his arms wrapped around Millicent from behind. "You were- shit, Hermione, you were blue. You _weren't breathing_." His dark blue eyes were wide, and his arms tightened protectively about his girlfriend as he spoke. Hermione gave a slight smile at this, remembering what Ron had said earlier about being a man in love. They were perfect, Ron and Millie. If anyone had the grit necessary to become a true Weasley woman, she did.

But at the same time, the little display of affection sent an undeniable pang of envy into Hermione's heart. _Where was Draco?_ She'd realized his absence almost immediately, even before she'd opened her eyes. The simple fact was, it was all well and good to be comforted by her friends, but she wanted to be held the way Millicent was being held now... and she wanted Draco to be the one holding her. She'd never even felt Draco's arms around her before, but she wanted them now, desperately.

She felt tears start in her eyes. Why had he abandoned her?

"I'm fine," she said, hating the way her voice was shaking just the smallest bit, because now Harry's green eyes were darkening protectively, and she didn't need that because she _was_ fine, really- physically, at least.

But as for mentally, emotionally... "I just... I need to see Draco." She looked around, from face to face. "Did any of you see where he went?"

For a moment there was silence, then-

"He's outside," Pansy said, her voice sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. "He- he stayed long enough to see that Longbottom had you breathing again, and then he ran. He-" Pansy looked around at the others, then took Hermione by the sleeve and led her a short distance away. "He's scared, Granger," she said quietly. At the incredulous look in Hermione's eyes, the Slytherin girl continued, "he's scared of what almost happened to you- and he blames himself completely- but it's more complex than that. He's scared of what he feels for you; how strong it is."

"He told you that?" Hermione asked, amazed.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Not in so many words," she said, rather archly, "but then, he doesn't have to, does he? I know. Does Weasley have to spell it out for you how he feels about Millicent?"

"No," Hermione admitted. "He did, though- but I'd have known even if he hadn't. He's my best friend."

"Exactly," Pansy said. "And you've known him since you were what, eleven? Well, I've known Draco since we were three, so trust me when I tell you I can read him like a book. And what he needs right now is for you to go to him... but trust me also, Granger, when I tell you that I meant what I said before. He's never... he's never cared for anyone romantically before, not like this. He's vulnerable- and if you hurt him, I _will_ rip you to shreds, near-death experience or not."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at this. "I understand, Parkinson," she said. "It's in our nature to be protective of our boys, isn't it?"

Pansy grinned back. "Go on, Granger. I'll run interference with Potter. Speaking of over-protective..."

00000

She found him in the pumpkin patch again. There were far fewer pumpkins out here tonight, many of them having been taken up to the castle as Halloween decorations. Of those that were left, several of the smaller ones had been hollowed out, carved while still on the vine, with lights placed inside that flickered in the night.

He was still in his costume; the white of the painted bones and of his hair against the darkness was how she located him at first. He was standing with his back to her, leaning sideways against the trunk of a tree- the Forbidden Forest crept right up to the edges of the patch- but she could see, even in the nearly complete lack of light, that his arms were crossed over his chest; his whole tightly contained stance screaming to her of the quiet, almost furtive sort of misery she so often caught Harry in when he thought he was alone.

In that moment, as she felt her heart lurch within her chest, she knew that she would spend the rest of her life doing everything in her power to take that misery and guilt away. It killed her when she saw it in Harry, and it was killing her now as well.

As she approached, she had to actively remind herself to address him as-

"Draco."

He turned quickly, startled. And then he had closed the distance between them and engulfed her in his arms all before she had time to do more than draw breath in preparation for... well, for whatever it was she'd been going to say next. It didn't seem important anymore, considering.

Considering who he was. Considering who _she_ was. Considering that they came from worlds that were more than different; they were diametrically, and often violently (as had been amply demonstrated this night) opposed. And considering that it no longer mattered in the least. All that mattered was his arms around her. It felt every bit as right as she had imagined it would.

"I'm sorry," he said into her hair. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm so sorry-"

"S'all right," she murmured soothingly, muffled, her face pressed into his chest, her arms coming up to hold him right back. "Its okay, Draco. Everything's fine."

"You weren't breathing." His voice sounded funny- oddly constricted. "You were... God, your lips-" he leaned away from her, took his thumb and ran it gently over them. "And it was all because of me. All my bloody fault."

"Draco, no. You didn't choose the family you were born into, any more than I did, or Harry, or any of us. But you made a choice last year, and it was the right one. And you still haven't gotten around to telling me _why_ you chose the way you did."

"You must know by now. Come on, Granger, you can work through advanced Arithmancy, but you can't figure out something as simple as that? Bollocks. You just want to hear me say it."

She couldn't help it- she laughed out loud. "All right, Malfoy, you win. I just want to hear you say it. Humor me?"

"Fine. You're the reason I switched sides," he said solemnly. "The only reason. I can't even place exactly when I started to feel... differently about you, all I know for sure is that about halfway through sixth year, when both sides were gearing up for war, the Death Eaters approached me about this new plan they had for luring Potter into a trap. It involved... well, it involved you as the bait, and they wanted _me_ to get you out of Hogwarts. It would have earned me my Dark Mark. By the time they spoke to me about it, they had already notified my father, in prison, of the plan. He owled me, ecstatic. It would have been considered an enormous honor for me to have received the Mark when I was sixteen- initiation rites usually take place a year and a day _after_ one's seventeenth birthday. But I knew I couldn't do it, I-" he paused and his arms tightened around her nearly painfully (she thought of Ron and Millie, thought, _so this is how it feels_)- "I couldn't let that happen to you. So I went to Dumbledore, and I- I switched allegiance. My friends came with me, and I was grateful for that, but I would have done it even alone. And everything I've done since- when I fought alongside Potter, I was fighting for you. Only you. I just made one mistake. I sent my father a letter explaining my actions, and the reason behind them. I reckoned I owed him _that_ much just for being my father- my only remaining parent. And he was serving a life sentence in Azkaban; I never thought-" he broke off. Pressed against him as she was, Hermione thought she felt him shudder. She decided it was time to change the subject.

"Draco- why did you never tell me any of this before?"

He released her then, and turned away, gazing off into the forest once more. For a long moment there was silence, and Hermione began to be afraid that she's said something fatally wrong... though what, she wasn't sure. Before she could ask, he spoke again, but so quietly she had to lean in to hear him.

"I have my pride, Granger. I don't take rejection well. For five years I'd done nothing but give you cause to hate me. I had no reason to suppose that if I told you any of this your reaction would be anything other than complete revulsion. That being the case, I decided it was better to love in silence than be rebuffed."

"Better to... Oh. Oh, my."

Draco turned back toward her, his face hard. But she was beginning, at last, to learn to successfully read him in spite of his formidable defenses... and she knew the hardness was a mask, thrown up in the wake of his admission a second ago, shielding the vulnerability that speaking those words had caused. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh.

"That's right, I bloody well said I love you. Now, if the feeling's not mutual, as I accept is most likely the case, at least have the decency to come out and say it- I do not like being strung along, Granger. Just-" he made an abrupt, unhappy hand gesture. "Just cut me loose, all right?"

She could hardly think of an adequate response to this. The best she could do was, "Never. I will never cut you loose, Draco Malfoy."

And wrapping her arms around him once more, she pulled his head down, hard, and kissed him.

One of his hands tangled in her thick, dark hair and the other moved to press against the small of her back, pulling her in, holding her body against his, and the last thought she had before giving herself over completely to the physicality of the moment was that everything she'd been through this night was worth it- that she'd go through it all again, to discover what she now knew; she was Draco's reason. His only reason.

And from here on out, he'd be hers too.

THE END

00000

(A/N: I love completing fics! Okay, I said all this at the very beginning, but once again, this was written for a fic exchange; everyone who participated got to request 3-5 things they wanted included in the plot of a fic, and then the mods assigned each participant someone else's request to fulfill. (And if the plot seemed at all rushed, please bear in mind that these exchanges have time limits; I had about a month in which to write this- normally the writing process is much longer for me.) The request I was assigned asked for the following:

_3 - 5 Things you want your gift to include:_

___   
a) some inter-House unity   
b) setting in 7th year post war   
c) a get-together in the great hall that is NOT a Yule-ball formal event type   
d) Neville doing a favor to either Draco or Hermione...   
e) and lots of glitter, because I like glitter. A light, fun and romantic fic would be nice, but I'm not requiring any moods or anything.   
_

_What you don't want your gift to include: _

_Nothing totally out of character, Draco and Hermione can like each other from the start but they shouldn't be already together, ExtraordinarilyPretty!Hermione_

And, I can't resist tooting my own horn just an _itsy_ bit- a vote took place at the end of the exchange and I was granted "honorable mention" (4th place). Now I'm going to say something only once, and be done with it: the person who received my request _never turned in my fic_, so there was no "exchange" for me- I gave, but didn't receive. She received, but didn't give.  I know who it is, and she does have an account here at FFN, but I'm too big a person to name names. However... Naughty, naughty, _shame on you_.

Many, many thanks to my awesome beta-reader Alex25, who is a wonderful D/Hr writer and I highly recommend her work, including "Not What It Seemed", the fic she wrote for this same exchange.)


End file.
